


Fortunate Children

by Critiquelle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Ineffable Family, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Saving the World, Slow-ish burn, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), the children are the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 18:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19446859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Critiquelle/pseuds/Critiquelle
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale’s love of the world— and each other— has caught the attention of the Almighty, and they once again stumble unceremoniously into the final stages of the ineffable plan. The Messiah is coming, and she’ll need the help of a witch and a witchfinder, a growing former antichrist and a reluctant Archangel to carry out her mission alongside our favourite renegade angel and demon. In other words: Crowley and Aziraphale raise a saviour, and the ineffable family set about saving the world.





	1. So You, Also, Must Be Ready

**PART I - A KIND OF MAGIC**

_One dream, one soul_

_One prize, one goal_

_One golden glance of what should be_

**Chapter 1: So you, also, must be ready**

SoHo, pre-dawn, is an altogether different place from the bustling, writhing hub of humanity one finds at midday. As the skies lighten incrementally, the cool and dewy streets echo with the few rare footfalls of the earliest workers—the paper carriers, delivery persons and coffee shop employees on their way in for opening shifts. The shops are all dim and shuttered, uninhabited, and folks in the flats above slumber or toss in fitful silence. In the relative emptiness of the early hours, one dim light shines through the window of the bookselling establishment of one Mr. A. Z. Fell, vendor of rare and antique texts. If one were to press one’s ear to the door, one would also hear the faint strains of a phonograph emitting the biting and relentless engine of the harpsichord underpinning the opening movement of Brandenburg 5. In this establishment, at least, life exists even at this quiet hour.

Perhaps this is why the basket is left there, on the front step.

It will be many long minutes before anybody notices it, at any rate, but possibly several fewer than if it had been left on the stoop of a less active storefront. The other shops will not open until half-nine, at the earliest. At this shop, at least, there is a chance that someone will come to the door should the need arise. Perhaps this is the reason for the basket having been so unceremoniously dropped there, and not any other, more significant cause.

Perhaps.

If we travel inside the shop, we discover what is potentially a second reason for this particularly rare delivery. Within the dim but warm lamplight of the closed establishment, an angel dwells in perfect peace and stillness, a cup of cocoa in one blessed hand, a text in the other, reclining in a well-worn and cushy armchair, a small but perfect smile on his face. Aziraphale has allowed his drink to grow cold, although he still grasps the mug absently, engrossed as he is in his book. His golden head is bowed toward the text as though in worship. The air within the shop vibrates infinitesimally with peace and comfort. The atmosphere is, in a word, divine.

A sound shatters the beautiful stillness. The angel drops the book into his lap and spills his cocoa.

“Bother,” mutters Aziraphale, first checking the text has escaped unscathed, and then swiping mournfully at the tasty stain that has bloomed upon his shirtsleeve. The sound rings out again; Aziraphale moves to the phonograph and lifts the needle with care, staring in the direction of the front door. Cautiously, he moves in the direction of the offending noise. What could it be? On his way, he picks up the first blunt object he can find, which happens to be a long yellow umbrella, and continues to creep steadily in the direction of the odd noise. Some injured animal, perhaps? Or something more nefarious and… not from here?

Aziraphale peers through the window next to the front entrance, carefully and as close to silently as his unwieldy human form will permit. A large-ish circle of wicker, filled with some sort of fabric, sits there on his stoop. Not an animal, then, at least not likely to be a dangerous sort of one. Potentially otherworldly, though… this is exactly the sort of trap the other side might set. Aziraphale stares firmly at the basket, and feels out through the walls and glass and the air itself. Chill and damp, a straining desire for comfort, mild hunger. No pain, and certainly no evil. In fact, something— pure is the word that comes to mind. It’s not an altogether bad feeling... quite the opposite, in fact. Slowly and carefully, Aziraphale opens the door.

He has a sinking feeling that he knows exactly what this is, as he kneels down beside the basket, but is nonetheless utterly unprepared as he pulls aside the fabric to reveal a pair of wide, dark eyes staring back into his own.

“Oh,” he says, somewhat breathlessly. “Hello, there.”

The tiny, pink creature in the basket blinks back at him, unanswering.

Snapping out of his shock and awe, Aziraphale rises to his feet and takes several steps forward into the street, looking quickly in all directions from his corner. No-one. He can’t sense anyone or anything approaching or retreating, and he comes to the very correct conclusion that basket has been there for some time. He rushes back towards it, as the creature inside begins to mewl pathetically. He grabs the basket with both quickness and care and bundles it inside the shop, closing and locking the door firmly behind him.

When he has set the basket down gently next to the (largely neglected) cash register, he again peers inside. “Well then,” he says, somewhat awkwardly, “Who might you be?”

The only answer is a repetition of the soft mewling, and the wide eyes narrow and crease with an unexplained distaste for something, Aziraphale knows not what. He begins to panic as the mewling becomes louder, and then louder still, until it has risen to an unearthly wail.

“Oh, no. No, no, little dear one—please don’t—” Aziraphale’s hands dart helplessly toward and away from the basket, unsure of what to do, until a sudden crashing noise from behind him causes him to turn, the unholy shrieking still ringing out from next to him.

“Angel, what in the name of—” the sentence dies in mid-air as the one uttering it comes to a skidding halt several feet away. Yellow eyes blink dumbly, and then narrow, as the demon Crowley, clad only in silky sleep pants, takes in the scene before him. “Is that,” he says slowly, voice slightly thick with sleep, “an infant?”

The answering cry from the basket makes any answer Aziraphale could have given absolutely redundant. “I heard a noise from outside,” he begins, a bit sheepishly, “and, well…”

Crowley rakes his hands down his face from forehead to chin, skin stretching somewhat grotesquely as he does so. In the few months since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, the demon has spent nearly all his evenings in the private quarters attached to the Angel’s shop, and of those, he’s spent about half sleeping. Half of those, again, have been interrupted by some odd goings-on or noise making in the shop, so this is certainly not the first occasion upon which an exasperated, half-dress demon has appeared before Aziraphale in a snit. Having been alone so long, Aziraphale does sometimes forget himself and set about noisy activities at odd hours. He’s always expressing his regret when he does wake Crowley, and typically the demon doesn’t actually seem to mind much, after shaking off his sleepiness. Not expressly requiring sleep, Crowley doesn’t actually do it as often as your typical earth-dwelling being, and Aziraphale even less so. Often they just stay up nights talking or drinking (or, more frequently, both at once). Although it’s remained largely unspoken, there has been a certain reluctance to leave one another alone for too long a stretch, following their tandem abductions. Crowley had followed him home from the Ritz, on that first day of delicate freedom, and basically hadn’t left. For better or for worse, Aziraphale finds that he welcomes the company.

The demon rubs his reptilian eyes and shakes off the last fog of sleepiness. “This. Is. NOT. Happening.”

Aziraphale winces. “My dear, I rather think it is.”

“Not again,” Crowley says, starting toward the basket.

“Again?” Aziraphale glances towards the howling baby as a fresh cry rings out.

Crowley’s head twitches in the direction of the offending creature. “I’ve been gifted a basket like this one before, Angel. I believe you’re familiar with the events that followed—Nuclear disturbances, Atlantis, Spacemen, the end of the world?” He takes two sudden, decisive strides forward and leans over the basket. “Not this time.”

“Wait!” Aziraphale reaches out and grasps the demon’s boney (bare, he nearly avoids thinking) shoulder and pulls him back slightly. “It’s not—I think it’s—” but Crowley’s already reeling back in surprise.

“Human,” he rasps, disbelieving. “I can feel it. It’s… a human baby?”

Aziraphale shrugs, and then nods. “I don’t know—but I believe so. There’s a feeling of good about it, anyhow. I can’t put my finger on it, but it certainly isn’t one of yours.”

“Could it be,” Crowley says carefully, “That, after all the bizarre supernatural events we’ve encountered, that this one is just… the regular sort of bizarre?”

“It’s possible.” Aziraphale peers once more, with trepidation, into the basket. The infant continues to scream.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Crowley huffs, and then reaches into the blankets and grabs the tiny, squalling thing and picks it up, clutching it tightly against his chest. A few more wails, then a whimper, then several sniffs, and then silence. Aziraphale’s eyes and mouth are round “O”s of surprise. As he watches, the demon sways ever so slightly, his soft shushing the only sound now in the entire shop.

“He stopped crying,” Aziraphale says, a smile of utter wonder on his face. Crowley shoots him a warning look.

“Quietly,” he hisses, looking somewhat strained. “What are we going to do with it?”

Aziraphale’s brow creases with sympathy. Now that he sees the infant resting so peacefully in Crowley’s arms, no longer red with the effort or wailing, but pink and sweet and oh-so-vulnerably human, he feels somewhat ashamed of his initial panic and a piteous grief on behalf of the poor, abandoned thing begins to creep into his heart.

“I suppose,” he says softly, “That we’ll have to call someone to come and get him. Perhaps they can track down his mother, or… Someone who will want him.”

“I think it’s fairly clear that nobody wants it,” Crowley says with an air of mild disgust. Aziraphale recognizes it as not a criticism of the child, but of the type of human who would abandon a baby on a doorstep in the middle of the night.

“Poor little dear,” Aziraphale leans over the bundle in Crowley’s arms, paying little-to-no mind to the soft, scoffing noise his companion makes. He peers into the infant’s face. The wide eyes are staring again, and the child is calm. “Nonetheless. We’ll need to call the authorities, to make sure –”

A loud thud catches them both off guard; Aziraphale gasps, Crowley wheels in the direction of the noise and the baby begins to wail once more. The reaction is far greater than the cause for alarm, as it turns out: a stack of books near the door is swaying precariously, with one heavy old volume having fallen to the floor, its pages spread open. Aziraphale tuts fretfully and moves to pick up the book and replace it. When he reaches the fallen text, he freezes in place. Crowley, who has managed to quiet the squalling infant (mostly), narrows his eyes.

“What is it, Angel?” He asks a note of mild concern in his voice. He’s seen that baffled expression before, and it seldom means anything good at all. “Is the book still alive?” he jokes.

“It lives eternal,” Aziraphale mutters, and picks it up, showing the covers to the Demon, who reels back reflexively. It is a particularly ancient Bible. Aziraphale still holds the pages open as they fell, and Crowley regards him with an uneasy look.

“What is it?”

“It’s just—when it fell, it opened to, well…” he pauses, and gives Crowley a weighty look. “Matthew 24:44, right there at the top of the page,” he says in a hushed voice.

“‘So you also must be—‘” Crowley is cut off by an abrupt hacking, choking on the words; the baby whimpers. “Damn,” he curses at himself, shaking his head. How easy it is to forget the things which are forbidden by one’s very nature, thinks Aziraphale as his companion continues to hack and smacks his tongue, which has seeming gone dry following his attempt to speak the holy passage.

“‘So you also must be ready’,” Aziraphale says softly, “‘Because the Son of man will come at an hour when you do not expect him’.” His eyes meet the demon’s, and they regard each other in measured silence, neither one wanting to admit what they’re both thinking: that this could be A Sign.

“Coincidence,” Crowley scoffs, finally breaking the silence. The scorn does not quite reach his gaze, however, which still seems filled with superstitious suspicion.

“Quite the coincidence,” Aziraphale agrees in the least assured way possible. “At any rate, back to the subject at hand— do you suppose we should call 999, or wait for the regular station hours?” As he speaks, he begins toward the stack of books from whence the offending text has come, evidently to return it, but on his way manages to stumble on the forgotten basket, and as a result the book flies from his hands and tumbles once more to the ground.

“Don’t look at it,” Crowley says, but Aziraphale has already retrieved the text from the ground and is staring in consternation at the first line on the newly opened page.

“John 1:14,” he says quietly. “‘The word became a human being and, full of grace and truth, lived among us’.” He regards the baby carefully. “You don’t suppose... could this be some sort of...”

“No.” Crowley is shaking his head, voice dangerously low. “Don’t even think it.”

“But Crowley... you know as well as I do, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

“I do not.” The Demon is starting to look itchy as he jostles the baby up and down.

“Give him to me,” Aziraphale says gently, setting the book aside and stretching out his arms.

“I’ve got it,” Crowley insists, suddenly looking as though he might crawl out of his skin at any moment. “And that’s all the more proof for you that there is nothing out of the ordinary about this regular, human baby. If there was something holy about it, I’d feel it.”

“And you clearly do not.”

“No. For your information, I don’t feel a thing.” Crowley is stalk-still as he says this, save for his left under eye area, which is twitching furiously. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Oh, give him here,” he says, and snatches the child. Something in Crowley’s stance unwinds as the infant leaves his arms, and that’s all Aziraphale needs to see. Well, that and the delightfully warm and lovely feeling of the tiny, glowing life he’s now cradling. The infant makes a soft noise, not unhappy like before but almost pleasant, and something in Aziraphale vibrates like the string of a violin, in harmony. He narrows his eyes reproachfully at Crowley. “If this isn’t the holiest human with whom I’ve ever come into contact— and you. You’ve known since you picked him up! Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“Oh all RIGHT.” Crowley regards the two of them sulkily. “So it’s holy. So what?”

“So what?” Aziraphale’s jaw is dropped in amazement. “We have to do something! Something a good sight more significant than calling 999.”

“WE don’t have to do anything.” Crowley’s voice is low. “You do recall what occurred the last time the Almighty sent an infant to humanity, don’t you? Nothing good, that’s what.”

“I’m not certain I agree, entirely, although it certainly didn’t turn out fairly for Him, in the end,” Aziraphale allows.

“Angel, listen to me. If what we’re thinking is actually true, we do NOT want to be involved. Let’s put it back where we found it.”

“We found him on our doorstep,” Aziraphale lets the inclusive pronoun— ours— slide by, because it feels almost as wonderful as the holy presence in his arms. There hasn’t generally been a lot of discussion about these sorts of utterances since the significant events of the almost-Apocalypse, and there has been a great deal of letting-things-slide. One day, there will be a reckoning, he knows, and they’ll have to talk about all the uncomfortable (glorious, wonderful, electrifying) things between them. But not now— now there is a more pressing matter at hand. “I think he’s likely to be traced back to us.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be here.” Crowley is right in front of him now. He doesn’t look down at the baby; his eyes are locked on Aziraphale’s. “This can only be one of three things: a mistake, an assignment, or a trap. I don’t like any of those options. Put the thing back where you found it, and let’s go. We need to get away from this, before it pulls us back in.”

Aziraphale feels the desperation behind Crowley’s words. All right. So maybe it IS now that they discuss it. “My dear,” he says, significantly, feeling wretched in spite of the golden glow he feels spreading from the tiny creature in his arms. “I can’t. I always thought, if the day came when you asked me again, I would go with you, anywhere you wanted me to. That nothing could ever be more important. But this child... You felt it, the same as I did, the moment you touched him— this child IS, Crowley. At least as important. I can’t abandon him. I won’t.”

He expects Crowley to have a fit, call him selfish or cowardly, maybe storm out. But the Demon does none of those things. Instead, he gently displaces a small stack of books on one of the bookshop’s many overcrowded tables and hops up, sitting down with an affected exhaustion. Aziraphale knows that’s not it, exactly; Demons can’t really get tired. But he also knows that tiredness and weariness are two distinctly different feelings. And right now, his companion looks weary to the bone.

“All right,” he says, looking up with those surprising eyes. “What do you want to do about it, then?”

“You mean... you’ll help?” Aziraphale feels something at his core melt as the demon quirks one eyebrow at him and gestures with a careless shrug.

“What did you expect? If you feel the need to help the brat, let’s figure it out.” He gives him a pointed look. “I’m with you, Angel.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale is dumbstruck. “Crowley.” The demon waves a hand in the air.

“Let’s not make a meal of it,” He says quickly, getting to his feet and gathering the basket from its spot on the floor. As Aziraphale watches incredulously, Crowley miracles a set of legs onto the basket, which has also lengthened slightly into a sort of oblong shape— a bassinet. “Here.” The demon extends his arms. Aziraphale hesitates.

“If it’s uncomfortable for you to touch him, you don’t need to...” Crowley rolls his eyes elaborately.

“I’ve touched holy skin before,” he says pointedly; Aziraphale fights a not-unpleasant shiver at the implication. Nothing carnal is implied, of course— but they have touched, many times, however briefly. Little touches, throughout history, that have left invisible yet indelible marks all over Aziraphale. “It doesn’t hurt. Just sort of... tingles.” There is the shiver again. Aziraphale tamps it down and gently passes the infant to his companion. At some point, although Aziraphale hadn’t noticed, the baby had fallen asleep, and now miraculously stays so in spite of the change of hands. Crowley must have noticed, and that was why he’d crafted the bassinet. Miracles never cease, thinks Aziraphale— thoughtfulness towards an infant is not something he would’ve expected from his demonic companion, even with the considerable movement he’s made in recent decades towards the grey area between light and dark. Although, now that he thinks of it, he does seem to recall making note of a certain soft spot the demon has for kids. Maybe it’s not so odd after all.

When the infant is settled snugly into the makeshift bassinet, Aziraphale turns to Crowley with a rather helpless look. “What do you suppose we ought to do next?” Crowley purses his lips.

“Well, since you’re disinclined to take my suggestion of running as far away as possible, I’d say might as well get in touch with your boss and see what all of this could possibly be about.”

“Gabriel?” The name leaves a bitter taste in Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Not bloody likely. I meant the Big Boss.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale considers it. “I must admit, that does make me a touch nervous. I’m not sure if you recall what happened the last time I attempted to make direct contact?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley darkly. “I remember.”

“We would have to be very careful this time, and make sure we’re not interrupted.”

“Yes. Because infants are famous for waiting their turn and never interrupting anything.”

“Hmm. Indeed.” Now he looks at Crowley, considering. “I wonder if you shouldn’t take the child and leave the shop while I... get in touch. Not that I don’t want you here, but I’m not entirely certain if you even can be. Are you permitted to speak to Her? Or hear Her speak?”

Crowley shakes his head. “I’m staying.” Aziraphale furrows his brow, concerned.

“I’m not certain that’s entirely wise,” he says. “And... well, I’d feel much better knowing you were safe.”

“Likewise. I’m staying.” Aziraphale knows that determined look in the demon’s eyes, and he knows better than to continue to argue.

“Well,” he says. “While I prepare, would you mind at least putting on some clothing?”

Crowley looks down at himself, as though it has only just occurred to him that he isn’t properly dressed. “It’s nothing She hasn’t seen before,” he mutters defensively. Aziraphale shoots him a warning look.

“Could we please try not to offend the Almighty?” He pleads. Crowley breaks into a grin.

“I can only promise to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s that? Nobody asked for a political romance about climate change? The memo must’ve missed my inbox, because that’s what this means to be, at the end of the day (although it may not seem that way yet). I read that article— you know, the one about the world ending in 30 years if things don’t change for the better?— and writing about a Devine intervention seemed easier than wallowing in dread. So here we are. 
> 
> At present, the plan is for this story to unfold over four parts. There will be several time jumps and we’ll see some of our old favourites from the first go ‘round at saving the world as the story continues. Part 1 consists mainly of the ineffable family, with later parts reintroducing some familiar faces. 
> 
> I believe that Good Omens is, at its heart, a love story, and so Aziraphale & Crowley’s relationship will be front and centre throughout. But it’s also a marvellous ensemble piece with important universal themes, and so I wanted to have fun with that, too. We’ll see more of that after the boys get their act together in Part 1!
> 
> Thank you for reading, it is so very, very appreciated!


	2. Unfortunate Child

_One shaft of light that shows the way  
_

_No mortal man can win this day_

After it’s officially decided that they will attempt to make contact, Crowley heads for the private quarters at the back of the shop, presumably to dress. Aziraphale shakes his head after his retreating form. He’s thought about making a blanket request for full clothing at all times during waking hours— it would certainly make it easier to concentrate on everyday tasks if there wasn’t a half-clothed demon slinking past unexpectedly— but each time he’s in the presence of an expanse of bare, tan skin, Aziraphale can’t bring himself to utter the words. Not that Crowley tends to be regularly unclothed, but there is a certain tendency to dash out of bed without a robe, and Aziraphale finds it disconcerting. Angels are sexless in their natural environments, it’s true, but their particular corporeal forms are true to the design. At least, he knows his own to be, and he assumes Crowley’s is as well, under those silky sleeping pants he’s so very fond of. Perhaps all demons possess those particular human traits anyhow— even fallen angels. Maybe it comes with the fall. Again, Aziraphale finds the idea of it all quite unsettling. He doesn’t put much thought as to why, because he’s marked that particular mental path as unstable and so tends to avoid it. He knows it’s there, if ever he should chose to venture that way, but for now he sticks to the typical route.

As he goes about setting the candles around the summoning circle, he reflects silently on the situation at hand. He and Crowley have essentially been cohabiting since the week following the would-be apocalypse. The demon still maintains his flat, and visits it most days, tending to the plants, spending some solitary time doing heaven-knows-what, and listening to music that Aziraphale has banished from the bookshop. He even sleeps there on occasion. But most nights, he stays with Aziraphale, in the private quarters behind the shop. It’s not a lot of space for two hedonistic immortals, but between the sleeping quarters, kitchen, his study and the shop itself, they make it work. Aziraphale rarely sleeps, whereas Crowley likes to indulge more frequently, so sleeping arrangements are a non-issue. When the very rare occasion arises that Aziraphale does choose to rest, he simply does so at a time when Crowley is awake and occupied. If his sheets smell ever so slightly of damp earth, fresh-cut greenery and brimstone, he doesn’t complain.

They haven’t discussed their living arrangements, which Aziraphale supposes is true to their typical form. In 6000 years, they’ve mostly skirted any sort of direct discussion about the exact nature of their relationship to each other. There are times when Aziraphale thinks he might like to simply ask. _Do we live together, Crowley?_ He wonders what the answer would be. _Yes, I sleep here most every night and keep clothing and toiletries in various cupboards, of course I live here?_ Or, _No, I just sleep here most every night and keep some clothing and toiletries in various cupboards, but I certainly don’t live with you, you sentimental idiot._ Aziraphale has mostly convinced himself that he’s comfortable not knowing.

He loves the demon, of course. This is not an unknown. Aziraphale has loved Crowley unambiguously for decades, and for much longer than he cares to think about before he acknowledged it to himself. It was the books that did it, really. When Crowley had enough consideration to spare Aziraphale’s books, after swooping in to save him during the Blitz, that was when he stopped hiding it from himself. He has essentially stopped hiding it at all, although he’s never directly said anything out loud, to Crowley or anybody else. But he’s no longer coy about it, and he’s not tamping it down or stomping it out at every turn, like he did for millennia beforehand. It’s there in his glances, in the occasional soft touches to an arm or a shoulder, in the way he calls him “my dear”. Things he’s done for ages, but now does with conscious, significant meaning. It’s enough, to him, to give his love. Aziraphale loves selflessly, always has, and finds he derives such satisfaction from it that he doesn’t require anything more. At least, that’s what he convinces himself of, when he’s sitting alone with his thoughts in a quiet moment.

On the occasions when he does crave something more, he seeks it out in Crowley and usually finds what he’s looking for. He knows how deeply the demon cares for him. He’s said as much in his words, and even more in his actions. _I lost my best friend,_ he said to Aziraphale after the burning of the shop, and Aziraphale heard and saw the additional meaning behind those words. Crowley had not just thought he’d lost someone precious to him. He WAS lost, in that moment. He was in a deep pit of utter despair, beyond help, beyond hope. The eternal spark that had lit those electric eyes for millennia, extinguished. And when he saw Aziraphale’s discorporated form, it was rekindled once more. Aziraphale cradles that memory beneath his heart and visits it whenever he feels lonely, or strange, or unworthy, and he knows that someone’s very life hangs on his existence, and that makes him feel significant and worthwhile. He is quite aware that angels are not supposed to need this sort of validation, but he does all the same. Humanity has had an influence on him, over the centuries, and he finds himself disinclined to criticize the results.

As he adjusts the last of the candles just so on the floor of the shop, he spends a moment being concerned again for Crowley’s well-being in all of this. What if the Almighty should smite him on the spot? It’s unlikely; Aziraphale has always gotten the sense that She has been more indulgent about their association than any of her archangels and other lesser legions. Still, it is possible. Aziraphale knows there is no chance of talking Crowley out of it. And for the sake of the baby, contact must be made.

The baby. Aziraphale jumps to his feet, knocking over a candle or two as he does so (thankfully, though, they are not yet lit, and no remodelling of existence is required in order to once again save the bookshop). He steps over to the bassinet. The infant is still slumbering, surprisingly. He closes his eyes briefly in relief and returns to his preparations. He can’t believe he’s been so easily distracted from the reason for all of this. This mysterious infant, so obviously holy and yet so completely of this earth. What possible meaning could there be for this impossible occurrence?

Aziraphale supposes they’re about to find out.

When Crowley re-emerges into the shop, Aziraphale is ready. They regard each other steadily for a moment. Crowley grasps Aziraphale’s arms, both of them, the crackle of their contrary energies evident even through the wool of Aziraphale’s casual jumper.

“Angel, if the worst should happen— ”

“It won’t,” Aziraphale answers more firmly than he would have thought possible.

“If it should, though.”

“It’s like you said before. I’m with you.” Aziraphale smiles wryly. “If the worst should happen.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Angel.”

“I can only promise to try.” Crowley’s mouth curves into a smile as his words are echoed back at him once more, and Aziraphale knows they are as ready as they’re likely to be. “All right?”

“All right. Let’s get on with it.”

He illuminates the candles all at once, with a quick wave. All goes as expected: the flames flicker then roar to life, the markings on the floor glow significantly, and then the pillar of light blasts upwards through the ceiling of the shop and a sudden brilliance and faint scent of ozone fills the air.

“Angel of the Eastern Gate,” booms the Voice of God, as the stern, aged face appears in the illuminated air. Aziraphale finds himself rather unimpressed.

“Yes, hello Metatron. Uh, Hope you’re well. I’m wondering if I might speak with Her. It’s rather urgent.”

“As things seem to be, where you are concerned.” Not without a sense of humour, that Metatron, Aziraphale reflects. He can practically feel Crowley rolling his eyes. “And... the Serpent of Eden. What a regrettable surprise,” the Voice continues, and Aziraphale thinks he might actually detect a note of real stupefaction.

“Hiya, old chum,” Crowley says with unnatural pep. Aziraphale shoots him a warning glare.

“With what may I assist you... two... at this fine hour?” Not without sarcasm then, either. Aziraphale would sweat nervously, if it were physiologically possible for an angel to do so. He’d always known he was out of Heaven’s favour after the whole face-choosing fiasco, but until no he hadn’t had to look any of its representatives directly in the eye. And now, faced with the ultimate in representatives, he was quite taken aback by how very alone it made him feel. Well, not alone exactly... he looked over his shoulder at Crowley and felt some comfort. But certainly abandoned.

“We need to speak to the Almighty regarding... the gift we’ve received.” Aziraphale suddenly realizes that it is entirely possible that, in the crafting of this arm of the ineffable plan, She has not bothered to mention Her intentions to the Voice, or possibly anyone else. “Will you let Her know that we have it, and we’re keeping it safe, but that we... aren’t exactly certain what to DO with it?”

The Metatron is working very hard to conceal his look of utter confusion (with, perhaps, a heavy dose of peevishness at not being in on the secret). “I’m afraid that’s not much detail to go on,” he begins, “Could cause a fair amount of back and forth. And the Almighty is quite firm about the economical use of Her time.”

“This one’s worth it, mate,” Crowley says, smiling benignly enough, although Aziraphale can practically smell the perverse pleasure he’s deriving from hurling pet names at an increasingly bothered Metatron.

“I should hardly think it advisable to take instruction from you, serpent,” Metatron says peevishly. “You are fallen. And you, Aziraphale, are heavily out of favour. I doubt anything you could have to say is of any concern to the Almighty. In fact, you’d probably be best to avoid drawing Her attention at all... you never know when you might be compelled to tumble down and join your chum.” Aziraphale feels a shudder run down his spine at the thought. As much as he recognizes now that being a demon is not necessarily the worst thing that one can be, he still values his holiness. He adores being an angel. The danger feels suddenly very real.

“If I didn’t know any better,” says Crowley, a dangerous undertone running below his mock-innocence, “I’d think that was a threat.”

“Oh no. More of a warning.” Aziraphale is about to make their excuses and extinguish the candles before things can get any further out of hand, when the pillar of light emits a loud crackle and Metatron’s disembodied head whips around, so that only the wispy hairs running across the back of his balding pate are visible to them. Then, with a sudden “Oh!” of surprise, he is no longer in their sight. The beam of light begins to pulse, and the air around them grows thick, as though the particles have slowed.

_Aziraphale. I am here._

The sudden burst of pure, radiant love that explodes inside Aziraphale’s chest nearly bowls him over. It has been over 6000 years since he has heard Her voice, and evidently he has forgotten it, although how that is possible he suddenly cannot imagine.

“Hello,” he says quietly, reverently.

 _My apologies for Metatron’s behaviour. It will not happen again._ The sheer hilarity of Her apologizing hits Aziraphale like a sack full of lead. He giggles without self consciousness, unable to help himself.

“That’s quite all right.” He is still a bit dumbstruck, and momentarily forgets the purpose of having made contact in the first place; he’s just so glad to hear Her voice again.

 _Hello Crowley._

That knocks Aziraphale out of his reverie. He spins on his heel towards his companion and finds, to his utter shock, that the demon has sunken to his knees next to the holy gate. His hands cover his serpent’s eyes, and at first Aziraphale thinks the light has blinded him. Then he sees the slight, uneven heaving of his companion’s slender back, and how the white light glistens, crystal-like, off a strange dampness on his cheeks and fingers, and he realizes that Crowley is crying.

Aziraphale longs to sink down beside him and comfort his friend, as strongly as he suddenly longs to step into the pillar of light and return to the wonderful embrace of heaven. He’d forgotten the wash of Her love and how it felt, and it was easy to become disenchanted with Heaven, having dealt only with its bureaucrats for so long. There really is no substitute for the real thing. Never has he felt so torn.

“Hello. Again.” Crowley’s voice is dry and strained, and so, so reverent. Aziraphale’s mind is suddenly made up; he steps over to his companion and drops to his knees, bringing his hand to rest gingerly on his shoulder. Crowley doesn’t respond, and Aziraphale is unsure if he can even feel him there, as absorbed as he is in the presence of the Almighty. He can’t believe he hasn’t considered how this experience might affect the demon. He’s never seen Crowley react with anything but coolness or rage at the forces of heaven. Again, there’s nothing quite like the real thing.

_Do not be ashamed, My unfortunate child. There is much to be done, and it will take strength and confidence in the doing._

Beneath Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley draws a shuddering breath, and then drops his hands from his damp eyes and nods his head once, decisively. Together, they rise.

_I have entrusted to you an indescribably precious part of My great plan._

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, eyes darting towards the basket. “The child. We had been... wondering about that.”

 _I have sent messengers to humanity before._ The Almighty’s voice sounds somewhat regretful _. It has not always unfolded as I had hoped. But now, there is no room for error. Humanity is faltering. My creation is falling to ruin. They must be the ones to correct it for themselves, but they cannot find the way. They need help. Aziraphale, Crowley, you will help them, as you have ever been inclined to do. You will help them by helping HER._

Aziraphale chances a look toward Crowley, and finds the demon’s eyes waiting to meet his. They each take a long, unnecessary breath.

_You have both been on this earth since the beginning. There is not a being in on the planet, nor above, nor below, whose knowledge of the history of humanity can compare to yours. No, nor anyone whose love of this world is half so strong. You defied your own intrinsic natures to protect this planet. Now I entreat you to do so again. Take this child I have given to you. Raise her with the full knowledge and power of Heaven and Hell at her side. Instil in her the knowledge and education you have earned in your time on this planet. Love her. Nurture in her the open, unyielding love you have for this world, for humanity, and for each other. Protect her until she is strong enough to protect My creation. All of My trust and all of My faith, take with you into this task. Do this for Me, for yourselves, and for the world._

Flabbergasted, Aziraphale sputters: “It is a great honour, to be sure but... well, perhaps we might not be the most appropriate choice of guardian for someone so... significant.” He thinks back to the anti-anti-Christ Warlock, and what a thorough disaster their de facto godparenting had been.

 _You will know what to do. It is not the same now as it was before. I have watched you. I know the heart of you, both. You are ready._ _Will you answer this call?_

Before Aziraphale can take a moment to consider, he hears Crowley answering. “We will,” he says without an ounce of sarcasm or venom. Clear, open, honest.

_Aziraphale?_

He looks toward Crowley, who is staring intently into the pillar of light, as though he never wants to look away. The demon’s face is transformed— none of the cynicism or sarcasm built up over millennia is now visible there. Only purpose and determination. Aziraphale realizes suddenly, sharply, what a significant opportunity this is for Crowley. A chance to be worthy in the sight of the Almighty. Who is he, Aziraphale, to ever stand in the way of that? For Crowley, as much as himself, he answers: “Yes. We will.”

_Then so shall it be. Raise her well. Prepare her for the challenges ahead. Do not use this line of communication again, I will come to you when the time is right. You shall not meet with resistance from our side. For now, your sole mission is thus: keep her safe, cherish her, and teach her well about the world. The rest will come in the fullness of time._

And like that, as quickly as it appeared, the pillar of light is gone and the warm, dim light of the bookshop is as before. The air seems to circulate once more at a regular pace. Aziraphale feels the absence of the Almighty like a gaping chest wound; beside him, Crowley is rubbing the bridge of his nose as if in great pain.

The infant in the bassinet begins to cry. Crowley heads straight for it, picking the baby up gingerly and clasping her to his chest, muttering some soothing noises over her tiny pink head. Her! Aziraphale marvels at the pair of them.

“Her,” he repeats, this time out loud. “She’s a her. A woman.

Crowley, who has straightened up some and snapped out of his reverie, replies, “I could’ve told you that.”

“Well, why didn’t you correct me?”

“I don’t care,” Crowley says pointedly, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Aziraphale is panicking a bit.

“A human _female_ woman. Whom we’re meant to protect. How are _we_ going to raise a woman?”

“She’s a baby,” says Crowley, quirking one eyebrow. “She’s not likely to be coming up against any glass ceilings in the next day or so.” Aziraphale is relieved— as relieved as one can be, given the current situation— to hear a familiar degree of banter coming from Crowley. The experience has obviously moved him immeasurably, but he is still standing and in roughly the same fighting form as before. He finds himself exceedingly glad at the fact.

“Well, yes, I know that. But what about when she’s older?” Aziraphale sighs. “The world can be so cruel to women. And I’m not sure how to prepare her for that.”

“If I’m comprehending our mission correctly, I think that may be the least of her problems. She’s meant to save the world, in case you missed that bit.” The baby is still mewling as Crowley jostles her gently up and down, nestled snugly between his neck and shoulder. Aziraphale’s chest twists in a way that is both painful and lovely.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed and yet, somehow, excited beyond measure. “For now, she’s just an infant. We’ve got more to worry about with regards to that than we do about saving the world, at least for today.”

Crowley has managed to quiet the baby again, but she’s still fussy. “What do babies eat?” He muses. “And how often? Is this going to be actual work?”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale admonishes. The demon rolls his eyes.

“It’s a joke, Angel. Babies eat formula. Or breast milk, but... well, I don’t think that’s in the cards in this case. Every 2-4 hours. And they soil their nappies and clothing and everything around them in utterly disgusting ways at every opportunity. I’ve been devising forms of torture and annoyance for human beings for over 6000 years, and I’ve never managed to come up with anything quite so thoroughly devastating as new parenthood.”

“You said yes. You said it before I did.” Aziraphale stares at him, uncomprehending, and Crowley simply shrugs.

“She called me Her child,” he says without meeting his eye. It sounds casual, particularly as he’s busying himself about bouncing the baby, but Aziraphale hears the longing in it. “How was I to say no?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, unfortunate Crowley. I think he might have missed Her just a bit. And the feeling may just be mutual.
> 
> We humans really have made a mess of this place. I wish there really was an Ineffable Family around to set things right.
> 
> Thanks to all who’ve read so far! I hope nobody minds exceptionally long chapters. Please share your thoughts in the comments... I will always respond!


	3. Cold-Blooded

_The Bell that rings inside your mind_

_Is challenging the doors of time_

As it turns out, the sudden appearance of an additional human being is not something that easily goes unnoticed. As crowded as the planet is, Aziraphale had assumed an extra person might ride somewhat beneath the radar, particularly one so very tiny. He could not have been more wrong. The very first customer in the door at the start of business (for, indeed, he has forgotten to lock the door, a mistake which is very shortly remedied) immediately remarks on the child, as though it were any of her business, cooing and making quite a fuss. Aziraphale thanks the woman as Crowley scowls and bundles the baby off in his arms into the back rooms. Then he answers a few quick questions and shoos her out the door as quickly as possible, locking it soundly behind her back.

He finds Crowley and the infant in the kitchen. “Well, I thought we’d have a bit more time to figure things out before we’d have to come up with a story as to how she got here. But it seems people are interested.”

“Have you not seen how people are with these things?” Crowley says, holding the baby aloft slightly. “They’re absolutely mad.”

Aziraphale fights a smile. “Whereas you don’t appreciate her in the slightest.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course I don’t.”

“Of course.” He watches as Crowley shifts protectively to cradle the baby in a way that is more comfortable for the both of them, his slender arms snaking around her tiny body as gently as can be. He feels at once a softness and a touch of envy in his heart, and he stomps out the latter as quickly as possible. Today is not a day to indulge in a deadly sin, particularly not one so useless. “I suppose one of us should pop out and acquire some of the necessaries... we’ll need formula for her, and nappies, and a crib and clothing and—” He suddenly feels as if the room is spinning. “My goodness, there certainly is an awful lot to think of.”

Crowley screws his face up in concentration, and suddenly there’s a table full of baby essentials. “That’ll do for the shopping,” he says easily. “Think you can manage the furniture?” Aziraphale regards him with fond gratitude.

“I believe so.” He starts to dream up a design, and is suddenly struck by another alarming thought. “Goodness! I’ve just realized... I never asked what we’re meant to call her!”

Crowley looks down at the bundle in his arms. “They do typically mention these things, don’t they?”

“Yes.” As Aziraphale watches, the baby begins to fuss again, and Crowley shushes her once more. He’s suddenly reminded of another girl, new as the world, encircled in the smooth, dry embrace of a serpent. A powerful person who knew her own worth. The first woman. “Lilith,” he whispers. Crowley’s head snaps to attention.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and starts toward them, “Lilith. The first of her kind, cast out because she knew her power and asked for it to be acknowledged. An unfair shot, if you ask me. And since we get to decide, I say why not give the name a second chance?”

“They won’t like that,” Crowley says, grinning wickedly. “It’s perfect.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says with a hint of superiority. He leans over the infant in Crowley’s arms and his smile grows wider. “Hello, Lilith. Hello, little darling.” The baby blinks wide green eyes at him and grasps one of his outstretched fingers in her tiny hand. And this is the moment Aziraphale feels it: the tip in the scales, the unbalancing of his humanity and his angelic nature. His human heart wins out and although there is no discernible change, he falls just a little.

*****

It is weeks before things settle into a decent rhythm in their odd, makeshift household. Once the initial shock has worn off, and they get through the first few days and come to terms with the utterly bewildering amount of work involved in caring for an infant, they are able to properly take stock of the situation and go about setting all the necessary cogs in motion. They have not spent 6000 years on earth without learning a thing or two about how to get things done with speed and efficiency, and they now put every one of their better abilities towards setting up a proper plan.

Crowley’s suggestion of resettling all of them into his larger, more flexible space does not go well; Lilith cries from the moment they enter the flat until Aziraphale snatches her testily and bundles her out to the street. They hypothesize that perhaps some purification of the space should occur before it is comfortable for an infant of such holy stock to inhabit. Crowley is rather cranky about the whole ordeal, but it’s clear that he feels badly, and ultimately they agree that the best place for everyone is the back at the bookshop. 

One of the conveniences of being largely left alone by the forces of heaven and hell is that they are free to throw about their holy and unholy abilities as they please, and so the remodelling of the living quarters begins. They can’t do much about the size, but they can reconfigure walls and retool furniture and decor to their hearts’ content. And so it is that Aziraphale’s beloved study is converted into a perfectly serviceable nursery, with a crib and changing table and scores of tiny, darling outfits that correspond roughly to the personal styles of both their designers. Crowley has installed a large quantity of onesies, leggings and jumpers in stylish classic black, while Aziraphale has had an absolute field day putting together soft sweater dresses and gauzy tutus and a lovely collection of various tartan 3-piece sets.

Lilith is, as far as they can tell, a perfectly ordinary baby. The paediatrician they have found for her seems to agree. They have her properly vaccinated, in case she really is 100% completely human, they make sure her food intake is correct for her age and weight. They doctor up some birth records and have her properly registered as a citizen of the United Kingdom, along with adoption papers so that nobody will call to police on the two admittedly strange men who are suddenly keeping a child in a bookshop. Mr. A. Z. Fell is the parent of record, as he is more officially documented than Crowley, and as the child resides at his recorded address. But the understanding between them, per holy mandate, is that they are both responsible for the child.

Having ethereal powers certainly takes much of the strain away from raising an infant, but some things are inevitable. It is quite an adjustment for two men with admittedly hedonistic tendencies. Neither is particularly accustomed to working this hard at _anything_ , never mind something so awfully important. The effort wears on them sometimes, and there is shouting or sulking or snappishness, often in hefty doses. But Aziraphale and Crowley are used to scrapping with each other, and they always manage to come back around to an understanding, as they have throughout history.

One night, when they’ve had a particularly nasty row over some mundane thing and Aziraphale has been off on a walk to cool his head, he returns to the shop and hears the low, soothing lilt of Crowley’s voice coming from the nursery. When he peeks his head in the door, he is greeted by the sight of the demon sitting in the large rocker, Lilith in one arm and one of his favourite art history books in the other.

“—and beautiful. Like you, wee thing. She knew what she was, and she wasn’t afraid of her power. Unfortunately, she was made in a time when it was wicked to question or disagree. So she was cast aside as a mistake. But the Almighty is infallible. There are no mistakes with her. She got it right the first time, and it frightened her so much to see what a powerful thing she had made, and so she discarded it. But you are of a different time. You are the acknowledgement of all that could have been, the first time around. And you’re going to be the one to set things back on course. This time, we’ll question everything. And we’ll finally get it right.” The baby has fallen asleep in the crook of Crowley’s arm; he sets the book down and rises slowly, setting her gently into her crib.

From the doorway, Aziraphale can see the open pages of the book, and the picture Crowley has been sharing with the infant. He is familiar quite with it; a John Collier piece, in which a pale, beautiful woman is enfolded in the winding coils of a gigantic serpent, wild red hair cascading towards the lush green grass of a darkened Eden. She is confident and serene, her bare form straight and strong as she rests her head against the serpent’s, a fond expression on her lovely face. It is almost alarmingly accurate, aside from the rather problematic Western racial bias so common in the art of this particular period. Aziraphale remembers the first Lilith as exceedingly lovely, with a strong, straight form, forceful yet calm. An iron rod where her spine should have been, and flint-like eyes that narrowed sharply with the suggestion that she bow to a man, her equal. He remembers the serpent then called Crawly winding with care around her waist and shoulders, hissing gently into her ear. They were, if not friends, friendly. Aziraphale wonders how fond he was of the first woman— quite, from the sounds of things— and whether he missed her, after she was cast out.

“Hello,” he says softly as Crowley straightens and turns away from the crib. The demon regards him steadily and flips his fingers in the direction of the door. The message is clear: wake her and I’ll hex you. Aziraphale heads into the hallway, with Crowley following close behind.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be back,” Crowley says in a hushed tone. “I thought I’d put her to sleep while she seemed willing to go.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale says, truly meaning it. “Thank you.”

“No need.” Crowley is still peevish; Aziraphale feels contrite, particularly after witnessing the tenderness of his moment with Lilith.

“I apologize for earlier,” he says. “I’m afraid my nerves are a bit ragged lately, and I’m not quite myself.”

“We’re both tired,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale knows he means in spirit, not in body. He nods in agreement.

“Still, I shouldn’t have called you a cold-blooded reptile. It was uncalled for.”

“And I shouldn’t have called you a featherbrained shitbird. So, we’re even.”

“I’m sorry, a _what_?” Aziraphale is halfway between dismayed and incredibly amused. “You’ve never called me that! I’m certain I would remember.”

“Well, just don’t be surprised if Lilith’s first words are some combination thereof.”

“ _Crowley_.” Aziraphale attempts a scolding tone, but can’t quite manage it through the bubble of laughter that rises up and overtakes him. He sees the wicked grin on the demon’s face, that particular one that’s all teeth and jaw, and realizes he’s teasing. “You didn’t really call me that in front of her.”

“Of _course_ I didn’t, Angel.” Crowley rolls his eyes. And just like that, he can tell the fight has ended and all is forgiven.

“Oh. Well then, that’s good.” He offers a sheepish smile to Crowley. “I really am, you know. Sorry, I mean. Not a featherbr—”

“Yes, I know.” Crowley shoots him a rueful look. “Me too. And for the record, you’re not wrong. I actually am just the slightest bit cold-blooded.”

“Are you?” Aziraphale is astounded— he’s known the demon for millennia and has never realized this. “That’s remarkable!”

“Yeah.” Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Crowley lays the back of his hand against Aziraphale’s; it is impossibly cool. Aziraphale looks at him in fascination. “Wait a minute, it’ll warm—” It feels as though they are holding their breath, in silence, the backs of their hands pressed gently against each other, for eons, until Crowley’s fingers twitch and shift to brush Aziraphale’s almost imperceptibly. “—there. You see?”

The hand against his is warm now, feeling very much like an extension of Aziraphale’s own. With sudden bravery, the angel turns his hand over and winds his fingers through Crowley’s. “Remarkable,” he repeats.

“Angel.” It’s not a question, or a complaint. Aziraphale isn’t sure he knows _what_ it is, exactly, only that he’s very, very glad to hear it from Crowley’s lips.

“I heard what you said. To Lilith.” It isn’t what he truly wants to say, but it’s what he’s capable of in this very moment.

“Did you?”

“Yes.” Their hands are still together, and Aziraphale takes Crowley’s other hand now and they are face to face. “We will, you know. Set things back on course. Question everything. Finally get things right.”

Crowley regards him carefully, with a stare that bores straight down into his gut. “Do you believe we can?” He asks quietly. There is a great deal of meaning behind his words. Aziraphale takes a moment to truly consider them, but of course he knows his answer right away, has always known in fact, if he’s honest.

“Yes. With all my heart.”

“Aziraphale...”

A piercing wail splits the air. Both their heads turn towards the nursery door. Crowley squeezes his eyes shut as if in pain.

“That was short-lived,” he says. Aziraphale smiles consolingly.

“I’ll take my turn now,” he says, giving Crowley’s hands a gentle squeeze before letting them go.

He reaches the crib in a reasonably quick amount of time, given the magnetic force that wants to pull him back towards Crowley with every step. When he picks Lilith up, she is still squalling, although the edge goes out of her cry the moment she’s in his arms. Aziraphale heaves a sigh as he clasps her to his shoulder.

“Oh, my love,” he whispers into her wispy hair. “My love.” And his heart aches, and he thinks he could easily weep right alongside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lilith of Jewish mythology was created from the same clay as Adam, at the same time, and was cast out of Eden after she refused to live as his subordinate. There’s a whole bunch of other stuff about her becoming a demon who steals and devours babies— I’d like to think, in general and for the sake of this story, that these are the sort of vicious rumours that get spread when a woman dares to question why she’s been dealt a less than desirable hand. Seems a lot more likely. I can see both Crowley and Aziraphale feeling quite bad for the original Lilith, back at the beginning. At any rate, the Collier painting is real. I’ve always loved it. She looks so at peace— she has no idea what’s to come. 
> 
> The pining. It’s painful. I promise to make it stop soon. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading! So glad to have company on this trip :)


	4. Take the Lid Off

_The waiting seems eternity_

_The day will dawn of sanity_

It takes an inordinately long amount of time to get Lilith settled back down to sleep, in spite of Aziraphale’s best efforts. He tries every trick in the book: bouncing up and down, rocking side to side, singing, pleading, letting her cry it out... all with relatively similar (and unsatisfactory) results. The situation is finally resolved with the meticulous crafting of an overhead mobile of floating lights, the product of some rather exhausted ethereal intervention. Entranced and spinny-eyed, Lilith stares quietly from Aziraphale’s arms at the swirling radiant orbs until she drifts off and is carefully placed back into her crib.

Aziraphale spends a moment more in the nursery, as he watches the sleeping child— partly to be certain she’s really and truly going to stay that way, and partly because he can’t actually bear to leave her behind. It’s a funny thing that’s happened to him, in these weeks since he found the child on his doorstep. At first, an overwhelming sense of duty and purpose powered him through the difficult nights and endless (and, frankly, often disgusting) days caring for an infant. She was adorable, in her less fussy moments, and that helped, but his faith in the ineffable plan had been somewhat reactivated, and it carried him through the overwhelming and exhausting moments.

But somewhere along the line, something in his chest has begun to bloom. Tiny and vulnerable at first, it is now lush and vibrant and well-established. Within mere days, his love of the child has gone from perfunctory to the deep, endless sort that has always terrified him in other contexts. Now he finds it comforting and lovely. He’s unafraid to give himself fully over to it, with her, and he’s found it feels rather nice.

It does somewhat complicate things, however, when it comes to holding himself back in other areas. That has become somewhat less simple to accomplish, now that he’s aware of how it feels to give in. The small green sprouts of hope and love that are winding around his ribs do not belong entirely to Lilith, after all.

He finds that, in quite moments, his eyes wander more than they used to, away from the words on his beloved pages to things even more beloved. His hands are idle, palms itching for the soothing tingle that comes from brushing against the wrong sorts of things. He paces when he used to be still. He goes for long walks, and still the pent up energy builds. His mind wanders, as it is doing now, down strange pathways.

Aziraphale shakes off the strange mood, adjusts the mobile floating above the crib with exceptional care, and silently leaves the nursery, with Lilith finally slumbering and at peace.

He finds Crowley in the bookshop proper, in the small nook with two chairs that now serves as their only non-kitchen sitting area (Aziraphale’s cozy study having been surrendered for the sake of the baby’s room). He is exceedingly glad to see the Demon still there, sitting sideways in his chair, spindly legs draped easily over one of the arms. He’d half expected Crowley to take off for his own flat, considering their earlier row and the subsequent awkwardness of its resolution.

But here he is, slumped elegantly into the overstuffed chair, an open book resting between his knees. As Aziraphale moves to sit in the second chair, Crowley thumbs the corner of the page downward and moves to flip the tome closed. With a quick purse of his lips, Aziraphale miracles the corner back to its intended position and eradicates the offending crease, just as the book shuts with a low _thud_.

“Now I’ll never find my spot,” Crowley grouses, straightening up and swinging his feet down to the floor.

“I thought you didn’t read,” Aziraphale says with a hint of humour.

“Yeah, but this one has good pictures.” Aziraphale, who knows very well that the book doesn’t contain any pictures whatsoever, does his best to look contrite.

“Well in that case, I _am_ sorry.”

Crowley sets the book down on the side table and then pulls off his sunglasses, setting them down on top of it and slumping backward into the chair. “She’s a real nightmare tonight. Nannying for Warlock was never half as much work as this.”

“To be fair, he was a bit older when we showed up. For all we know, he could have been a hundred times worse as an infant. Probably was. Although— and while I think ‘nightmare’ is perhaps a bit harsh— she is being rather difficult. Perhaps she’s growing teeth?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Crowley rolls his vibrant eyes. “What a joy, parenthood.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in surprise. Parenthood? The word sounds both foreign and delightful to his ears. “Is that what we are? Parents?” The thing in his chest unfolds its petals, basking in the glow of the idea.

“Ah.” Crowley looks a bit wary. “I didn’t mean anything strange by it, it’s just...” He shrugs, trying to look casual, but his discomfort is glaringly obvious. “Who else has she got?” He finishes lamely.

“Is that all?” Aziraphale presses him, in spite of his very real concern that he might be dancing around the edges of another fight, this one with potentially disastrous repercussions.

“What else? It’s not like we had any choice or say in the matter. Neither did she, but here we all are, and we’re all she has. We’re supposed to raise her and care for her and— well, other parental things.”

“Love her,” Aziraphale says softly. “That was the instruction. To ‘nurture her in the love we have for this world, for humanity, and for...’” he trails off. They both remember the last part.

“‘Unyielding’,” Crowley says distantly. “That was what She said... ‘unyielding love’. That’s what She apparently thinks we bring to the table.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale can _feel_ the red creeping up past his collar. “She’s right, of course.”

“As always.” Crowley isn’t denying it. “Angel?”

Aziraphale’s head swims dangerously. “Yes?” His answer is a little more breathless than intended, and that knowledge only exacerbates the redness issue.

“Do you really?” Aziraphale isn’t sure, for a moment, what he is asking, until Crowley clarifies, “Love her, I mean?”

“Oh! Lilith? Well, of course I do! She’s a baby, and babies are wonderful, and besides she’s a _holy_ baby, and aside from all of that still, I’m an angel. I love everybody.”

“No you _don’t_ ,” Crowley waves off his statement like he can see right through it, which of course after all these years he probably can. “You love lots of people you probably shouldn’t, I’m sure. But _everybody_? Not a chance.”

“Well, fine, perhaps I’m a bit more selective than your average angel ought to be.” He says, a tad defensively.

“That’s because your average angel’s love is mostly lip service. Yours is real. And so, it stands to reason, a bit more selective.”

“Oh. _Crowley_.” Aziraphale feels a familiar prickling behind his eyes. A warm wind rustles through the garden in his chest. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Of course you’d take that as a compliment towards you, and not the intended insult towards the rest of your species.” Crowley’s eyes refuse to meet his. Aziraphale can feel the moment of earnestness slipping away from them, to his utter dismay.

_Not this time_ , he thinks firmly, gritting his teeth. He rises from his chair and takes a step toward Crowley, kneeling in front of his companion’s chair so that they are at eye level.

“My dear, I truly wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says gently, one hand coming to rest on the demon’s knee. Crowley looks up at him, finally.

“Do what?” He sounds as though he’s bracing himself.

“Pretend that the nice things you say to me aren’t actually about saying nice things at all.”

Crowley’s jaw is clenched tightly, his face all sharp lines and corners. “This again? I’m not _nice_ , Angel.”

“I apologize. You’re quite right— it’s not a sufficient descriptor.”

The demon rolls his eyes, frustrated. “And that isn’t what I meant.”

“But it’s true.” Aziraphale gives him a small, tender smile. “It doesn’t quite cover what you are.”

“Careful, Angel.” Crowley’s voice is low, rumbling with something deep and not of this world. Aziraphale feels the thrill of it, tingling up through his palm where they are still connected.

“Of what?”

“Of thinking too well of me.” Crowley’s eyes are boring into his, dark with focus and intent. “You think I do these things without motive. That’s what a nice person would do. It isn’t true.”

“It’s been 6000 years, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “If you think your motives aren’t always abundantly clear to me by now, then you haven’t been paying attention.” He gives him another small smile. “I know you.”

Crowley covers Aziraphale’s hand with his own. The garden in his chest explodes into full bloom. He’s still on his knees at the demon’s feet, and only becomes aware of the significance of the position now. He finds that it doesn’t bother him, sitting subservient like this, waiting for permission to do... Heaven even knows what. He hasn’t gotten that far, hasn’t even thought this far if he’s honest. All he knows is that he’s on the edge of something fantastical, with the only person he’s ever wanted beside him as he leaps into it.

“You know me,” Crowley agrees in that same low tone. “Always have. I go too far, too fast. And when you can’t pull me back, you pull yourself away instead. I know you too, Angel.”

Aziraphale understands it all, in that moment. Crowley will never meet him halfway, or attempt to cross the distance to him when he retreats. Not anymore. So many times throughout their history has the demon surged forward to meet him, only to be met with resistance, rejection or withdrawal. He can’t help peppering their interactions with temptations and selfishly motivated compliments— he’s a demon, after all, and there are some things that are inevitable in a demon’s nature. But where it counts, at the real, pure core of their relationship, Crowley will stand and wait, forever if necessary. Because he can’t bear to risk reducing it to an ill-motivated temptation or a casual conquest, and because Aziraphale has flat-out told him that he moves too quickly. Because of all this, Crowley hasn’t moved since the panic of the apocalypse. It is suddenly abundantly clear that he will not move toward him again.

It will have to be Aziraphale, this time.

“I rather think I’ve caught up to you,” he says with a rueful grin. “I’m sorry it’s taken such an awfully long time.” He turns his hand over and places his other on top, grasping Crowley’s hand in both of his own. “Please forgive me.”

“Aziraphale.” Those yellow eyes are blazing, intense. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” His heart sinks a little. Has he misjudged? It doesn’t seem possible.

“You’ve read your mythology, Angel.” Crowley’s expression is full of foreboding. “If you take the lid off, it all comes out. And you’ll never get everything back in the box again. Once it’s out, it’s out for good.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale brightens once more. “Is that all?” He’s somewhat wickedly satisfied at the flabbergasted expression this elicits. “My dear, to continue with your metaphor, that box is shoddily constructed, poorly sealed at best, and I believe the lid’s been halfway off for at least a few centuries.” He smiles, this time a full beam, and continues, “And what’s already been released into the world... it’s beyond containment. There isn’t a box in the universe large or strong enough to hold it. And I don’t want to lock it away any longer.” Rising forward slightly, he moves carefully toward Crowley and leans in, brushing his lips against one sharp cheekbone. The coolness of the demon’s skin feels marvellous on his warm face, warmer still with the flush of excitement and nervousness that creeps in despite his uncharacteristically bold actions and words. He pulls back slightly to look directly into those serpentine eyes. He needs to see. “I _adore_ you, Crowley. You mean the world to me. I should have made that clear long ago.”

“Aziraphale.” This time it’s not a warning or a question. This time it sounds closer to a prayer. Crowley pulls his hand away, but only so that he can reach forward and grasp the angel by the shoulders. Sharp fingers dig into his arms through his suit jacket, a little bit harder than gentle, which Aziraphale finds he quite appreciates. Crowley seems to be searching his face. He doesn’t ask if he’s certain— the demon knows him well enough to know when he is serious and means what he’s saying. Yellow eyes clench closed, and Crowley lets his head drop forward, forehead resting firmly against Aziraphale’s. The strength goes out of his grasp, exhausted, and he slides almost fluidly out of the chair to join his companion on the floor, heads still together. Aziraphale feels a rush of sympathy, alongside the unimaginable joy of it all.

“My poor dear,” he says. “How long you’ve waited for me.”

“I’d have gone longer. But it hasn’t exactly been brief.” Crowley’s cool forehead is warming against his, Aziraphale notes. He reaches up to cradle the demon’s face in his hands, one palm against the hollow of each cheek. He feels the inexplicable need to warm him entirely.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers. And he kisses him.

It’s not a long kiss, just a simple and slight press of lips, but it carries the weight of millennia of adoration and longing, and therefore might in fact be the most passionate kiss in all of earthly history. At least, it feels that way to Crowley and Aziraphale, sitting on the floor of the bookshop, arms and legs tangled together, making attempt after desperate attempt to best their own newly-created record.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, you see? I told you it wouldn’t be much longer. 
> 
> Oof, I love them. That’s all I have to say. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Very Much, and More

  
_Is this a kind of magic?_   
_There can be only one_   
_This rage that lasts a thousand years_   
_Will soon be done_

As celestial beings, angels are not meant to be interested in the trappings of the flesh. Aziraphale is aware of this fact. But even angels have their vices. Gabriel has his bespoke suits, Sandalphon likes heist movies. Uriel’s been known to haunt the beauty department at Topshop, and Michael is a straight-up double agent. Aziraphale has several vices, himself— sushi, cocoa, a well-worn waistcoat and jacket, and of course, books. He supposes that now, he must add yet another to his list.

  
Not that Crowley hasn’t been one of his vices for some time. But verbal sparring, taking in lunches, and going for long car rides, sometimes without reason or excuse, seem to be in a slightly different category than the vice in which he’s currently involved.

  
What he’s currently involved in, precisely, is sitting side-by-side on the floor with his demonic companion, shoulders and heads together, turning Crowley’s hand over and over in his own. With every flip, he runs his fingers along the smooth, dry skin of the back of the demon’s hand, then the softer skin of his palm, then the back again, and so on, every now and again enlacing their fingers and then letting go again. His fingertips practically crackle where they brush Crowley’s skin. It is frighteningly enjoyable.

  
“Aziraphale?” Crowley drawls, sounding a bit sluggish and wrung out, but not at all in a bad way.

“Mm?”

“What, exactly, are you doing?” He can hear the amusement, and although he doesn’t move his head away to look, he can see the curlicue of a smirk in his mind’s eye. 

“I’m learning you,” he says, smiling. 

“By staring at my hand.”

“Yes.” Now Aziraphale does pull their heads apart, to look him in the eye. What he sees there is an incredibly fond amusement. It’s a look he’s seen before, only this time he doesn’t feel even remotely condescended to, as he often has. This time he feels precious and beloved. “I’m a very close reader, you know. I hate to miss the important parts. I want to understand everything, know every detail. To learn you by heart, until I could remake you out of thin air if I wanted to, with every detail correct.”

  
“That is... incredibly weird, Angel.” The way that Crowley is gazing at him helplessly makes Aziraphale think that he rather doesn’t mind weird at all. He smiles beatifically and presses his lips briefly to the centre of the demon’s palm. “And charming. Annoyingly charming.”

“You do seem very annoyed.” With a friendly pat, he sets Crowley’s right hand down on the demon’s thigh, and then takes his left and begins the process anew. There’s a soft puff of air as his companion chuckles through his nose. 

“Just the hands, then? That you intend to learn?” 

“For a start.” Another kiss to the palm. “You’re quite a long read, Crowley. Lots of pages. Tiny font. One needs to take one’s time with these sorts of things.”

“Hedonist.” 

“As charged.” Crowley’s fingers wrap around Aziraphale’s, suddenly. Aziraphale stills and feels a tender throbbing in his chest as his hand is squeezed tightly. When Crowley says nothing, after a long moment, he continues, “It’s real, you know. You needn’t worry. I won’t ever let go of you again, my dear, unless you want me to.”

“Best you don’t.” They grin at each other. “Metaphorically, of course. Could get awkward otherwise.”

As if on cue, a piercing wail slices through the stillness. Aziraphale winces, as Crowley utters a fantastically loud “Oh, WHY?” 

“She’s remarkably consistent. I believe it’s your turn,” he tells then demon flippantly, and then his face softens. “Bring her in here. I’ll get a bottle warmed. We can all sit together for a while, while she settles down.” He leans in to bestow a quick kiss to Crowley’s cheek, but the demon turns and captures his lips instead. Their earlier attempts at record-breaking have paid off exceptionally well. Aziraphale thinks that there is more passion in that one-second kiss than most humans experience across all the kisses of their (admittedly short) lifetimes. He aches a little as Crowley glides easily to his feet and heads toward the squalling baby in the other room. 

In a daze, he sets about making the bottle. As he heads into the kitchen, he wonders idly if he’s likely to fall for this. Unlikely, but you never know. Gabriel and the council of Archangels certainly wouldn’t appreciate it. But they’re nowhere around. And the Almighty, Herself, seemed to acknowledge their love for each other. She gave them a child to raise, for Heaven’s sake. No, he doesn’t think he’s at risk. 

Perhaps there’s a risk for Crowley, should Hell become aware. He already knows how much Crowley is willing to risk for his sake; he wouldn’t put it past the demon to throw himself in the path of any number of things that might threaten Aziraphale, even before this latest development in their relationship. Now it’s potentially even more dire. He takes a moment to worry about that, before deciding it’s a problem for another day. He doesn’t anticipate Beelzebub popping up through the floorboards, all a-buzz, to smite him any time soon (even if he does let his eyes dart around the corners of the room, for sanity’s sake). 

When he re-enters the shop, he finds Crowley in the same chair as earlier, only this time Lilith rests fussily in his arms. Crowley is humming something soothing, as he jostles the baby gently in his arms. Aziraphale smiles down at the two of them as he hands the bottle to Crowley, and Lilith latches on immediately. His heart clenches as he sees the tiny smile that ghosts over Crowley’s face as her fussing subsides. 

“You _do_ love her,” he says quietly. “You asked me, earlier. It was because you do, too. Wasn’t it?”

Crowley purses his lips. “Well, it’s like you said: babies are adorable,” he says, brushing it off. Aziraphale just stares pointedly at him, until Crowley rolls his eyes and continues. “All right, _fine_. Since we’re being truthful tonight... it’s the way she looks at me. It’s like having a second shot. She looks at me and she sees comfort and sustenance and shelter and all the good, safe things that I’ve watched you give to people over thousands of years, while I’ve been an irritant in their socks. She looks at me like she trusts me. It’s a tough feeling to resist.”

“I trust you,” Aziraphale says quietly. “All those things... I see them in you too, you know.”

Crowley gives him a long look, full of gratitude. “I know, Angel. I haven’t missed it. But you know the rest of it, too. You know me, Aziraphale. The evil and the not-so-evil bits. She only knows the better parts. With her, at least, I get to start again. Not that I’d give up any of our history if I could... just that there’s someone in the world who sees things starting from now. I can be the best of myself for her, and with you, I can be whole. It’s two completely different species of love.”

“I love you, too.” Aziraphale’s grin might split his face in two at any moment. Crowley groans.

“Aw, _Hell_ ,” he spits. “You tricked me into that.” 

“I did no such thing,” Aziraphale insists, feeling very much like the metaphorical cat, his mouth full of canary feathers. 

“I wasn’t supposed to just... pop out like that. After thousands of years.” Crowley sounds sulky. Aziraphale doesn’t feel even the slightest bit of pity. 

“Even so... you _do_.” He’s still beaming helplessly at the demon. Crowley rolls his yellow eyes.

“Obviously, Angel.”

“Very much?” Aziraphale says hopefully. 

“And more.” He says it like he’s never been more irritated in his very lengthy life, but Aziraphale senses the truth behind it, and feels a matching emotion thrumming inside his own chest, as well. Oh, how he _loves_ him. He leans down and kisses his demon on the temple, right over top of the serpent tattoo, and then bends further down still to plant a second kiss to Lilith’s forehead. And in the garden of his heart, warm sunlight calms the quaking leaves, and for the moment, all is still.

END PART I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the first part of the story. But there’s much, much more to come! I hope you like time-jumps, because there will be a few. Caution: preteens ahead, and all their associated drama. Some of our old favourite characters will show up in Part II, as well, so stick with us!
> 
> I know this was a short chapter, but hopefully it’s sweet enough to sustain. If it helps, the next one is almost TOO long. 
> 
> Thank you, as ever, for reading and for your beautiful comments and kudos. I cherish each and every piece of feedback, and it makes my day so much brighter to hear that you are reading and appreciating this by-product of my headmeat. This is the loveliest fandom in existence, and I’m so grateful to be a part of it!


	6. Preteen Messiah

**PART II - UNDER PRESSURE**

Chapter 6: Preteen Messiah

Tadfield, Summer 2030

Anathema Device-Pulsifer has a headache. It is not the sort of headache one gets from using the computer for too long or spending too many hours in fluorescent lighting— in fact, her house has neither of the necessary items for those particular types of headache. Nor is it a sinus headache, or a run-of-the-mill migraine. It is a particular sort of headache to which only a few humans on the planet have ever been subjected. And the cause of it is the care and feeding of the preteen Messiah currently tearing about her side yard.

  
Now, as she looks out the window over her kitchen sink, Anathema wonders with a fickle sort of sarcasm whether it’s too late to return to her life as a professional descendant. How would one go about un-burning a book, exactly? _I didn’t have to worry about schoolwork or sticky hands on my nice stationery. I wasn’t responsible for making sure anyone kept breathing, except for myself— at least not directly— and I didn’t have to do laundry or make lunches._ She sighs heavily and dreams of the dry-clean-only wardrobe of her youth.

  
In the yard, two children are playing— at least, Anathema _thinks_ they are playing. For all she knows, they could be summoning up some sort of unholy trouble. It’s not as though it hasn’t happened before, although she’s fairly certain it hasn’t ever been intentional. Yet. Her de facto niece is a good soul, with a kind heart and a brilliantly sharp mind for a child of eleven. But strange events seem to be occurring more and more frequently with every passing week. Just this month, Lilith has gained an inch in height, and they’ve twice woken up to find the hedge outside the window has grown two stories high overnight and is in full bloom. Having magical friends and otherworldly family has its advantages— namely, the timely disappearing of any strangely developed items that might crop up around the child. But Anathema finds herself staring sidelong at Lilith when the child isn’t paying attention, and she wonders with a hefty dose of dread exactly what will happen when the uncontrollable monster of puberty rears it’s ugly head.

  
“Mummy! Mummy, look!” Anathema squints through the open window, and then grabs her glasses from the counter and puts them on, headache thrumming even more intensely. Outside, Iphigenia Pulsifer is scooping down to pick up some raggedy thing from the ground. Before she can yell a strongly worded warning not to touch, Anathema watches her daughter grab the bundle from the ground with her grubby hands and tear toward the screen door, Lilith following behind her with a worried expression. Anathema meets them at the door, opening it and effectively blocking their entry; no way is she about to allow whatever unholy item they’ve dug up into her mostly tidy kitchen.

  
“We thought is was dead, but then Lilith touched it and it _moved_ ,” crows an excited Iphigenia. Anathema frowns down at her daughter’s hands, in which a rather tattered-looking mourning dove struggles weakly to escape.

  
“It must’ve just been hurt, or resting, ‘Phee,” Lilith says quietly from behind. “And I just spooked it.”

  
“Yeah.” Iphigenia looks a tiny bit disappointed at being brought down to reality. “Probably.”

  
“It’s definitely not all right, though,” Lilith adds. “Can you look at it, Aunt Anathema?”

  
“Yeah, mum, can you see if it’s going to be ok?”

  
Anathema bends down and with a combination of pity, disgust and practicality, takes the bird— it would _have_ to be a dove, wouldn’t it?— from her daughter. The dove is certainly NOT all right, as Lilith has so bluntly observed. One wing flaps, the other is lame, and it feels... _softer_ than a bird ought to. Anathema finds a wound under the lame wing, a bad one. With her mind, she quests out toward the bird and finds... nothing. It is animated, certainly. But it is not alive.

  
“She’s very badly hurt, girls,” Anathema says gently. She whips a tea towel off its hook and gingerly wraps the poor bird in it. “I’m sorry to say, I don’t think there’s any hope for her. You were right to bring her in, she’d only suffer out there. Why don’t you two go ahead and wash your hands and get cleaned up for supper, and I’ll call someone from animal control to take care of her.”

  
Both girls have giant, shiny tears welling up in their eyes. Anathema hates this part of parenthood, but she is practical enough to know that it’s inevitable. Not the reanimating of deceased wild animals part, but the explaining of life and death. She’s comfortable enough with how she’s raised her daughter that she knows Iphigenia will bounce back rather quickly. Lilith, however, looks grey and grave, and won’t stop staring at the bird.

  
“Go on,” Anathema nudges gently. “I’m sorry, darlings, but there’s nothing else to do for her. Go clean yourselves up and I’ll deal with this.” The girls trudge off up the stairs, the sounds of sniffles trailing after them.

  
Anathema sighs as she holds the unfortunate animal in both hands. She does not enjoy this sort of magic, but sometimes it is necessary. Closing her eyes, she mutters an incantation and holds the bird tightly through the tea towel until she feels its attempts at fluttering cease. The incantation isn’t a fatal one— you can’t kill a thing that’s not really alive, after all— but it’s not a pleasant one either. Anathema’s always been most comfortable with the sort of magic that centres around the doing of things, not the UNdoing, and so her headache grows.

  
Later, she’ll tell the girls that the bird expired on its own, and they’ll have another good sob while Newt buries the poor thing in the garden.

  
Motherhood is not something that has come easily or naturally to Anathema. For one thing, she has always been used to knowing what events were likely to unfold ahead of her, before they actually occurred. Even if she didn’t always have the most perfect grasp of the details, she was at least given a vague outline. All that changed with the apocalypse-that-wasn’t.

  
She should have known better, in retrospect. If ever there was a time for a modern day witch to conceive a child, it was in the eye of the storm surrounding the end of times. Two of them climbed under that bed frame for some frantic pre-apocalyptic coupling, and three emerged. Had she known that she was pregnant, she might have kept Agnes’ second tome, instead of feeding the pages into the fire. Any sort of road map to motherhood would have been very much appreciated.

  
She loves Iphigenia with all her heart, of course. Newt, too, although she sometimes wishes she could own an iPad without fear of it exploding. And she thinks she’s done mighty well, actually, all things considered. Her daughter is smart and altruistic, with a vivid imagination and a fierce sense of loyalty. If she’s sometimes a bit of an instigator, it’s only due to her inquisitive and curious nature (at least, that’s what Anathema tells herself, when she’s not in the mood to admit that her child might be just the tiniest bit naughty). She’s oddly perceptive for a ten-year-old, and Anathema has long suspected a touch of clairvoyance, although it’s at present unfocused and basically used for her own benefit. She’s always egging Lilith into some sort of benign scheme, which the other girl is only too glad to go along with.

  
Lilith and Iphigenia have been best friends since infancy. They’re practically inseparable. The last place Anathema expected to find a lifelong friend for her daughter was in the home of the two strange not-men with whom she once prevented an apocalypse, but there it was. It was they who had sought her out, initially. Something about raising a human child with a very important destiny had made Aziraphale and Crowley eager to seek the input of someone who’d been there, and Anathema was the closest approximation, so they invited her to visit and discuss. Aziraphale had called it ‘kismet’, when she arrived at the bookshop with a belly the size of a large watermelon. He seemed to think it was a foregone conclusion that their children would be friends for life. It annoys Anathema just a little bit to know that, so far, he’s been right. Still, she’s fond of the Angel, and of his demonic counterpart (even if the latter lacks any degree of discipline or self-control and is a horrible influence on her own daughter, who already skews slightly wicked on occasion). She is perhaps still a bit surprised that they’ve confided in her and Newt the way that they have, but then again, once you’ve braved an apocalypse together, a certain degree of trust creeps into a relationship. She’s glad they’ve entrusted the mystery that is their child to her— Lilith needs her.

  
Anathema has strong feelings about raising a child with a predetermined destiny. Having been raised in such a way herself, there are certain things she wishes she’d experienced, and certain qualities she often feels she lacks. She knows that she is smart, calculating, efficient and disciplined. These were the benefits of her upbringing. She often wishes she were just a bit more fanciful, relaxed and imaginative. She’s done her very best to instil these qualities in her own daughter, and to encourage them in Lilith as well. She has urged Aziraphale and Crowley not to stifle their daughter with study and preparations. Certainly, she should be encouraged to learn and understand the many things she’ll need to know to carry out her purpose (whatever that is, and however it will unfold— to date, none of them are actually clear on the when, where and how of it all). But she should be allowed a childhood. Anathema is adamant about that. And since neither of her parents have ever actually been a child, Anathema and Newt have taken a rather active role in that part of Lilith’s upbringing.

  
When it was discovered that Anathema was going to have a baby, all plans of returning to America vanished fairly quickly. She’d never been that fond of it anyhow, although her daughter possesses dual citizenship, just in case it might come in handy some day. They had set up a longer rental agreement to stay at Jasmine Cottage. Newt was quite sentimental about the whole thing, something about the birthplace of their relationship becoming the birthplace of their child, and Anathema somewhat more practically agreed that it was a charming house with which she was already familiar, in a quiet place, where the rent was very reasonable. So they set themselves up, eventually made an arrangement to purchase the house from its owner, and it was theirs.

  
Given Anathema’s family circumstances, however, it’s been feasible for the family to have more than once place of residence. The Device family have acquired the sort of wealth, throughout the ages, that generates its own salary with each passing month. So when, after nearly a year of seemingly endless travel between Tadfield and SoHo to visit with Lilith, Anathema and Newt determined that a 2-hour drive with an infant was not their favourite activity, it was no hardship for them to purchase a brownstone at a price somewhere north of reasonable and set up a second home in the city.

  
They spend most of the summer in Tadfield these days, as well as holidays and some weekends. Weeks are spent in London, where Anathema passes her days home-schooling the girls and honing her witchcraft, which she refuses to let slip simply because she’s a very busy woman with a Messiah to educate. Aziraphale also takes on some of the educational duties: the Angel is responsible for languages, religion and world history. Anathema takes on the rest. Crowley’s contributions to Lilith’s education are somewhat less formal, yet no less impactful; the child has a grasp of strategy that would bowl a seasoned army general over, and her debating skills are second-to-none, although she rarely argues. Iphigenia has reaped the significant benefits of their bizarre educational structure simply by proximity to Lilith and her instructors. It is obvious to all of the adults that whatever way Lilith’s destiny may unfold, Iphigenia will undoubtedly be involved anyhow, so there’s hardly any reason to exclude her from their enriched educational program. They are sure to meet all the standardized testing regulations— both girls test well above their age, and at this point the tests are fairly unnecessary, but they continue with them anyway, just in case. After all, Anathema acquired her PhD at 20 — she certainly isn’t one to turn her nose up at formal education.

  
This week, they are in Tadfield for an extended stay, as often happens in the summer months. When Lilith was younger, Aziraphale and Crowley were reluctant to part with her for very long at a stretch. But now that she’s grown— and _they’ve_ grown to trust Anathema and Newt a bit more thoroughly— week-long visits are a regular occurrence. Lilith has her own twin bed in Iphigenia’s room, and a closet of clothes and belongings that stay at the house in Tadfield when she goes back to SoHo. The girls spends these sweet summer weeks running in the gardens or the woods, making forts and pretending fantastical adventures (for which they certainly have enough fodder, more than your average 10-year olds might). They are still young enough for unselfconscious play, and Anathema is reminded, heart-wrenchingly, of another group of children who used to inhabit these very same woods. The Them are still around, of course, but it’s different now. Pepper is taking Women’s Studies at Oxford, and Wensleydale is off at— Anathema simply can’t recall which college— preparing for his CPA certification. Brian is still in town, working in his Uncle’s auto shop in town, the former foodstuff on his hands and clothes now replaced with grease stains from motor oil. And Adam...

  
Fondly, Anathema thinks of the former Antichrist, as he was at just slightly older than her own daughter. The spark of mischief has never left Adam Young’s eyes. It’s just that these days, it’s hardened into something a bit more pointed and determined. When Adam left for King’s College London to begin his studies in Political Science, something happened to Tadfield. It was still the same lovely, pastoral spot as always, but everything seemed somewhat muted, a bit less bright and perfect, like a painting in need of some light restoration. Anathema recognized it for what it was, when most of the town’s inhabitants simply chalked it up to “the way the world is heading”. But Anathema knows the reason for the dullness, and the reason why, whenever Adam comes home for a visit with his parents, the days are always just a bit brighter. Now, for example, with Adam home from school following graduation, the sun filters down through the trees in the daytime, warming the air to just the right temperature, and the evenings are breezy and still.

  
He always makes sure to stop in on her and Newt when he’s about town, a fact which Anathema takes very personally and truly appreciates. She’s known him for fully half his life on earth, and thinks of him as another child (one over whom she has far, far less influence than her own — Adam has never been particularly good at doing what others ask of him).

  
Perhaps she should speak with Adam about Lilith. He can almost certainly identify with some of what’s going on.

  
As if summoned, a small voice from behind her says, “Aunt Anathema?” Startled out of her reverie, Anathema turns around to find Lilith standing in the doorway to the living room. Clad in a jet-black linen pyjama set, her mass of red-gold hair thrown haphazardly on top of her head in a gauzy iridescent scrunchie, fuzzy white slippers on her feet, she looks every inch a normal ten-year-old kid (albeit one with somewhat confused fashion sense in sleepwear). She also looks very, very worried. Anathema offers her a gentle smile and quirks her head toward the sofa beside her.

  
“Hi, sweetheart, come on in.” Lilith pads across the floor to her, fluffy slippers squeaking slightly against the creaky old floors. “What’s up, little duck?” In spite of herself, the girl’s lips twitch slightly upward at the nickname. This was intentional, of course— Anathema knows exactly what’s up, and she wants to put her as much at ease as possible. Lilith sits on her heels on the sofa and turns to her.

  
“Aunt Anathema, what happened to the bird?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s a depth and solidness to it that most ten-year-olds haven’t managed to cultivate. Many of the adult women she’s met haven’t managed it either, for that matter. Her own daughter is about halfway there, herself, which Anathema feels is pretty good, for ten.

  
“What do you suspect happened?” She asks, firmly but kindly. Lilith worries at her bottom lip with her teeth and furrows her brow.

  
“I know what Phee thinks happened, and what _appears_ to have happened. But what I feel happened is different.”

  
“Bring me through it, then,” instructs Anathema, placing a comforting hand on her niece’s knee, so as not to seem too professorial.

  
“Well, I saw the bird on the ground and was pretty sure it was dead. I don’t know why I touched it... maybe because I thought we might bury it, or that there was a chance it might still... but it was cold, and felt stiff and soft at the same time. And I just felt this... pity, and regret for it, like I wished it hadn’t had to die. And then it started to move. It came back to life under my hand. Except...”

  
“Except?” Anathema prompts, carefully watching the worried look on the girl’s face.

  
“Except it wasn’t, was it? Alive? That’s what it looked like, but I couldn’t _feel_ it. So... what did I do?” Now, Lilith’s self-possession cracks, and her eyes go watery. Anathema softens. The teaching moment can wait.... there’s a child who needs comfort.

  
“You didn’t do anything wrong, duck,” she says, pulling the girl into her side. “All you did was wish that something tragic wasn’t so. Your natural instincts did the rest— we’ll have to work on that, but you didn’t do anything bad.”

  
“Was it dead, or alive?”

  
“It was dead, love,” Anathema says, stroking Lilith’s autumn gold head. “It was moving, but there wasn’t any life in it... some sort of minor enchantment. I stopped it while you were upstairs.”

  
She feels the girl heave a sigh of relief. “I’m glad,” Lilith says softly. “I’m not sure I want to be able to do things like that.” There’s a thoughtful pause. “Phee said I made it into a zombie. Do you think that’s something that could really happen?”

  
Ever the disturbance, her daughter. “No love. Zombies aren’t real. Iphigenia is being preposterous.”

  
“People think Angels and Demons and witches are preposterous,” Lilith counters. Anathema smiles.

  
“Yes, but we’re _much_ smarter than those people, aren’t we?”

  
“Perhaps. Or maybe we just have more _access_.” Bless the child, thinks Anathema. They really are teaching her well.

  
“You’re right, duck. Of course.” She pulls back to look the girl in the face. “Are you feeling a bit better now?”

  
“I guess so.” Lilith still looks pensive. “But... about my ‘natural instincts’... we will work on those, won’t we?”

  
“Yes, of course we can.”

  
“Good.” Lilith’s expression is resolved, steely. “I DON’T want to get out of control.”

  
Anathema would laugh at the girl’s seriousness, if it weren’t actually quite a serious situation. “I can understand how you feel, Lilith. But the most important thing to remember is that, provided your intentions are always good, you’re not likely to cause any great harm. And you’ve got me and your fathers there to help when things get a bit unmanageable.”

  
“I know. I just don’t want to go around accidentally resurrecting things all the time.”

  
Now Anathema does chuckle. “Well, if we think that’s a danger, perhaps you should avoid picking up dead things from the ground, at least until we’ve got a handle on whatever’s going on.”

  
Lilith cracks a rueful smile as well. “Sounds like a plan,” she says. She winds and arm around Anathema’s side and embraces her. “Thanks, Aunt Anathema.”

  
“You’re welcome, duck.” She looks down at her indulgently. “I think Uncle Newt’s in the kitchen, if you want some cocoa before going back to bed?” At this, Lilith genuinely brightens, before nodding and darting off to the kitchen. Anathema hears her husband greet her, and the soft hum of their voices continues as she stealthily picks up the phone and winds her way out onto the porch.

  
It’s six rings before a muffled voice answers on the other end of the line with a gruff bark of “ _What_?”

  
“Good evening to you too,” Anathema says sweetly.

  
“What is it?” The voice says, this time far more concerned than annoyed.

  
“Everything’s fine,” Anathema says quickly; there’s a rush of air on the other end of the line.

  
“Witch. _WHAT_. Is going on?” That’s Crowley for you— annoyed to touchingly concerned to even more annoyed in ten seconds flat.

  
“It’s happened again,” she says, possibly a bit more slowly than necessary, just to grind the demon’s considerably creaky gears.

  
“Oh, for the— AZIRAPHALE!” The last part is, thankfully, muffled as though a palm has been put over the microphone, because it is clearly shouted at top volume. The next thing she knows, she can hear two voices instead of one, and she’s on speaker with the the Angel and Demon.

  
(Anathema’s phone, incidentally, does not allow for a speaker phone— it is in fact an old rotary, with a spiral cord and everything, and she has to run the wire out the screen door in order to talk outside. They tried acquiring cell phones once, early in their marriage, but the things short out every time Newt goes anywhere near them.)

  
“Hello, Anathema,” Aziraphale says with unfailing politeness, and then in the same breath, “Is she all right?”

  
“Yes, she’s fine. But we’ve had another incident, I’m afraid.”

  
“Oh dear.” She can practically see the Angel’s fretful expression through the phone line. “What’s happened? More expedited plant growth? Did she fortify the water supply again?”

  
“Um, no... it’s a new one. She may have... reanimated a corpse.”

  
“WHAT?!” This from Crowley. Aziraphale is, apparently, speechless.

  
“An avian corpse. Not human,” She reassures.

  
“Ohh, fine then,” Crowley drawls sarcastically. “That’s much better.”

  
“Crowley, _please_. This is serious!”

  
“I know that, Aziraphale. The last person we knew who had the power of resurrection ended up baking in the Middle Eastern sun with nine-inch spikes through his wrists.”

  
“Oh, don’t.” There’s a hint of franticness in the Angel’s voice. Anathema rushes to clarify.

  
“It wasn’t a legitimate resurrection,” she says. “Just animation. It moved, but there was no life in it. Like a charm, almost, only it happened without her trying.”

  
“I’m sure the teeming mobs will be mollified by that distinction,” Crowley says bitingly. “How could you allow this to happen?”

  
“Hey! I didn’t allow _anything_... they were playing outside and the next thing I knew there was a dead bird fluttering in my daughter’s hands! And _your_ daughter was pale as a ghost. It terrified her, in case you were wondering. I talked her down as best I could, and she’s in having cocoa with Newt now. I think I’ve handled the whole thing pretty well, considering I had to put down an undead bird in my kitchen this afternoon!”

  
“Oh, thank you, Anathema, that couldn’t have been easy for you.” Aziraphale’s voice is both comforting towards her and pointedly corrective, as though telling his demonic counterpart to knock it off, for heaven’s sake.

  
“I spoke with Lilith about it... it seems like it happened because she felt terrible for the poor thing. She said she felt regretful that it had died, and the next moment it was moving about. She was quite disturbed— it got her out of bed, worried she was going to create a legion of zombies. I told her that was nonsense, of course, but to be perfectly frank... I’m not sure I actually see the difference.”

  
“Oh, there’s a difference,” Crowley says knowingly. Anathema doesn’t ask.

  
“Perhaps we should come get her tomorrow,” Aziraphale says ruefully. “I hate to disrupt her time with Iphigenia, she’ll be crestfallen, but maybe it’s for the best?”

  
“No, don’t do that,” Anathema says beseechingly. “She feels bad enough... if you come and get her it’ll only make her think she did something wrong. She’s all right for now, just come on the weekend as planned. I’ve got an idea for how to handle things, in the meantime.”

  
“Really?” Crowley sounds sceptical. “And how, exactly, do you plan to do that? It’s not as though you can identify with what she’s going through.”

  
“No,” says Anathema thoughtfully, “but I know somebody who can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me all the way to Part II! 
> 
> I didn’t mean to trap Anathema into frustrated parenthood, honestly! I promise she won’t remain that way forever... I have plans for her! I apologize if anybody feels the absence of Newt— it’s not that I don’t like him, it’s just that I like the IDEA of him far better than having to actually deal with writing him. I’ll get over it soon. But not too soon.
> 
> Stay tuned for a visit from our favourite antichrist :) Thanks, as always, for reading!


	7. Grandeur and Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said we’d check in with Adam this chapter, but I got confused. Here, have some Ineffible Husbands instead, we’ll get to the Antichrist next time around.

_**Laugharne, Wales** _

  
Crowley stares at the black screen of the cellular phone for a good thirty seconds after ending the call. Aziraphale watches, fretting silently. Finally, Crowley looks up with his sun-shaded eyes and says, "Well, I suppose we'd better get to thinking of a plan, then."

"It's so soon," Aziraphale says plaintively, not bothering to argue. True, it's been over a decade since Lilith appeared on their doorstep that night. But as they've both discovered, a decade seems like rather a short stretch when you've been around for an eternity.

"We can't avoid thinking about it any longer, Aziraphale," Crowley says seriously. Aziraphale knows that tone-- when Crowley is this stern, it really is time to get down to business. "We've laid down the groundwork, and now it's time to figure out the rest of it."

"You're right, of course. I just wonder if we shouldn't have heard from Her by now? She did say that She would be in touch when the time was right, and that we'd know the way until then." Aziraphale worries at the thin band he wears around his left index finger, twisting it helplessly round and round. It was a gift from Lilith on her eighth birthday. Their child had decided at a very early age that she couldn't bear the fact that neither of her fathers actually _had_ a birthday, and had come up with the idea that she would give gifts to both of them on hers, instead. Of course, being a youngster with no income, this had amounted to Crowley and Aziraphale simply purchasing gifts for each other on the anniversary of discovering Lilith on their doorstep, but she's always been the one to pick. Crowley has a matching band on his right hand, like a mirror image of Aziraphale's. There had been some eyebrow raising between them when she'd chosen the rings for them, but to tell the truth, neither particularly objected. Aziraphale has, over time, developed the habit of worrying at his in moments of anxious thought. It usually calms him some. It is _not_ working now. 

"Way I see it, the Almighty's either under the impression we've got it well in hand," intones Crowley dryly, "or She's abandoned us."

"Oh my dear, surely you don't think..."

"No, I don't think." Crowley rolls his eyes. "Just an attempt to lighten the mood."

"This is no time for sarcasm." Aziraphale frowns. "I must admit, I'm truly at a loss. I thought we'd at least have until her adolescence before we had to worry about this."

"Me too," Crowley admits. "But I suppose it's as good a time as any." He removes his sunglasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Aziraphale realizes, with a sinking dread, that neither of them has any idea what to do next. This is not unheard of, but it is rare-- generally, if one of them is at a loss, the other has some manner of plan. All the doubts and worries of the past ten years begin to creep in around the edges of his consciousness. Swallowing around a boulder that seems to have suddenly manifested itself inside his throat, Aziraphale fights back a prickling behind his eyes, and says,

"Crowley. I'm so frightened for her."

"I know." The Demon looks him in the eye. "Me too."

"She's _good_. Truly good. What happens when we put her in the line of fire?" He looks imploring at Crowley. "We've seen what's happened in the past."

"That's _not_ going to happen this time," Crowley says emphatically, voice high and tight. "It's different." He looks like he's wracking his brain, hard, for the right answer. Aziraphale is about to sink into a real bout of despair, when Crowley sits bolt upright. "Ah!"

Aziraphale looks at him, hopefully. "What is it?" He says, anxiously.

"Influence!" Crowley bounces to his feet and begins to pace. "Why did She choose us, Aziraphale?"

"Because of our love for the earth, for humans and for each other," Aziraphale replies with the rote answer they've given to Lilith so many times. It doesn’t feel particularly helpful at the moment.

"Well, yes. But aside from that, what exactly are we good at?" He stares expectantly. Aziraphale purses his lips in thought.  
  
"We each have many useful skills," he begins. "Reading, gardening, you're a good driver, if not a bit unsafe, and I can dance a little..."

" _NO_ , Angel." Crowley is clearly exasperated that he isn't getting it. "Well, yes. But that's not what I meant. We're _influencers_. Not like those vapid children on their social media. Real influencers. We've been doing it for millennia-- convincing folks to do things they'd never have thought of doing, behind the scenes, without drawing attention. For the most part," he adds, and Aziraphale thinks, unbidden, of France.

"Perhaps _you_ have," he says a bit peevishly. "Sounds an awful lot like temptation, to me." Crowley shrugs.  
  
"Now we know why I was included in the plan."

"Oh Crowley. You know it's more than that! Lilith needs you. _I_ need you!"

Crowley waves that aside, too carried away to get caught in an emotional moment. "Anyway, that's how we do it! Lil's not the face, she's the inspiration. If we can get her near the right people, she can influence them toward the right actions, and they make the changes that make things better. Bingo: world saved, we all go home and enjoy our lives."

Aziraphale is pretty sure his eyebrows are in his hairline. "Bingo?" he questions. Crowley shoots him an expectant look. "It's not a bad plan," he says, considering. "We'd need to get a level on what has to be accomplished, and roll it out over time. We should revisit the list, once we're home." They've been building a long accounting of all the societal and environmental factors that need to be adjusted and improved to avoid the absolute collapse of humanity since shortly after Her visit to them eleven years prior. It's a very long list, comprised of ten or so spiral-bound notebooks. Several items have been stricken from the list over time, either because Crowley and Aziraphale have managed to deal with them on their own (it hadn’t been too difficult to crack into ICE’s data base and reissue all the agents’ schedules so that there was one completely empty shift at the border camps, during which Crowley had simply miracled open a few doors, allowing folks to stroll directly out into the night) or because it is far too late (Aziraphale had cried for three days straight when Venice finally slipped beneath the rising waters). But there's still a massive number of tasks left to see to.

"We can do it... SHE can do it, Aziraphale. I know she can." Crowley looks almost excited, now. "She's good, you're right about that. But she's cunning, too. She knows how to get around people. She's been getting around us her whole life." Aziraphale knows that's true. "She can work below the radar, influencing people for the better and gathering the necessary players to our side. If the movement has many faces, it's safer for everyone. And especially for Lilith."

"Do you think it will work?" Aziraphale asks, still doubtful. "It makes sense to me, but it doesn't have any of the grandeur and sacrifice that these things typically do."

"Grandeur? _Sacrifice_?" Crowley looks mildly disgusted. "Well if that isn't just the most _angelic_ thing I've ever heard." It's not an compliment. Aziraphale feels the sting of reproach in his cheeks. "Call me insane, but I wouldn't think you'd want her to have to sacrifice anything."

"I don't!" Aziraphale protests immediately. Crowley has gone cold on him suddenly, and he can't understand the reason. "It's just that, well, I've been around long enough to recognize that these sorts of things typically require some sort of sacrifice, from someone." He can see, from the darkening of Crowley’s expression, that he’s only digging himself further into whatever hole he’s just blasted into their formerly comfortable conversation.

"Maybe," says Crowley icily, "there's already _been_ enough sacrifice as part of this whole ineffable nonsense. From some of us."

"Crowley, you know I didn't--" but Aziraphale's protestation is useless, delivered as it is to Crowley's back. The demon whirls around on his heel and tears out the door of the little cottage, slamming it rather spectacularly in his wake. Even for an admittedly rather sensitive and dramatic demon, this seems a bit of an overreaction. Aziraphale knows there is a deeper discussion to be had, when Crowley reacts this way, but he also knows better than to chase after him. It will only escalate the situation. Sighing heavily, he sits down on the cushy sofa and thinks.

This was not why they had come to Wales, in the first place. It was meant to be a restorative trip. Aziraphale had first visited Laugharne in the mid-late 1940s, after the war. After a particularly disheartening stint attempting to mend some of the misery left behind in Poland, he'd retreated to the calm and untroubled coastal town, meaning to stay a week or two to rest and regain a bit of sanity. He'd ended up staying for nearly a decade. He'd purchased the cottage at some point during that time, and has been back semi-regularly across the decades. He and Crowley often come here when Lilith is with the Device-Pulsifers for extended stays. They've had many an argument in this setting; Aziraphale knows where he'll find the demon, when it's time.

He does what he's done every time they've had an argument in the past eleven years: he sets about the very difficult task of seeing things from Crowley's perspective. This is not particularly easy for Aziraphale, since he cannot bend his angelic mind into the exact right configuration, but after so many years of association he does understand something of how the demon's brain works. He thinks it through slowly and methodically, putting himself in Crowley's position, imagining the relentless, lingering sickness of being cast out from his ultimate place of belonging. Like a stain, a spot that never comes out. He can live, and breathe, and love, and sometimes even move far enough away from the darkness that it's nearly forgotten. But never completely. It's always there, around the corners of his vision. And in his heart, that heart that otherwise is so capable of loving so completely, is a void. Right at the centre. The negative space in which the peace of Heaven used to reside. Aziraphale gasps with the pain of just imagining it. And then he thinks how it might feel, to hear the suggestion that he has not sacrificed, not given of himself, when this void sits so obviously in his chest, day in and day out. That, perhaps, he sees his part in Lilith’s upbringing as not only an essential part of the ineffible plan, but the very reason for his falling in the first place. And he weeps, hard, absorbing pain and understanding, yearning to fill the void as though it exists within his own heart. When his tears dry, he arises resolute, and heads out to find his demon.

There is a spit of land, heavily treed, bordered by a breakwall against which the estuary waters crash in the unsettled night air. Aziraphale finds Crowley sitting on that breakwall, legs tucked beneath him to keep his boots dry, staring out towards the Celtic Sea. His back is straight, which is how Aziraphale know's he's ill-at-ease; a relaxed Crowley is a slouching Crowley. He is rigid now, and the energy which peels off of him in waves is unpleasant.

Aziraphale comes up behind him and kneels, wrapping a protective arm around his narrow shoulders. He presses his cheek into the short hair at the nape of Crowley's neck, and, lips brushing his ear, he speaks:

" _My tears are like the quiet drift_  
 _Of petals from some magic rose;_  
 _And all my grief flows from the rift_  
 _Of unremembered skies and snows._ "

Crowley doesn't respond, but Aziraphale feels the ropy muscles of his shoulders uncoil a bit. He continues.

" _I think, that if I touched the earth,_  
 _It would crumble_ ;  
 _It is so sad_ _and beautiful_ ,  
 _So tremulously like a dream_."

He drops a lingering kiss on the demon's cheek. "I apologise, my dear. It's easy for me, sometimes, to forget what it must feel like for you. I know I don't feel the passage of time half as keenly as you do. How it must ache, having to live inside each and every moment."

"He wrote that near here, didn't he?" Crowley asks, and Aziraphale nods, his head still resting against Crowley's.

"Such a talent, and so young. A tragedy." He thinks about the poet for a moment. He'd known him, although not well, and he'd mourned when he learned of his passing. "His understanding always did seem otherworldly, to me."

"Uncanny," Crowley agrees. There is no need for further apologies or absolution. Aziraphale feels the steady hum of Crowley's emotions, level now and meeting his own with a sympathetic vibration. They sit in silence for a moment, looking out at the water, listening to its relentless static.

There is something he must say, and Aziraphale takes a deep, steadying breath before saying it. "When it comes to sacrifice," he says slowly, "You have done your part. More than. It is most important to me that neither you nor Lilith should have to suffer, ever, if possible. You have given enough, for so many years, and she is far too dear for me to allow anything to--" he can't even finish the thought. "I believe you are right, that it might be possible to accomplish what we're meant to do without much damage. But in the event that it's not..." he pauses before putting the thought out into the universe. "In the event that a sacrifice is unavoidable, it will be mine to make."

"Aziraphale." Crowley pulls away slightly, but only so that he can look him in the eye. "You don't even know what you're proposing."

"I do," Aziraphale says firmly. "I understand, Crowley. If I have to throw myself down in front of either of you, I'll do it. And if I fall, if I _have_ to fall, I know what it will mean. I've considered the possibility before."

"So have I," Crowley says darkly. "And I won't allow it."

"My dear, if it happens, I doubt very much you'll be given a choice. And while I don't _think_ it will happen-- _She_ did set us on this course, after all-- if there is a sacrifice to be made, I _will_ be the one to make it." He smiles wanly. "I trust you'll be there to catch me."

"Where else would I be?" Crowley takes Aziraphale's face in his hands. "It's not going to happen, Angel. But if it does... I'm with you." The words are just as thrilling each time Aziraphale hears them from Crowley, no matter how many times that may be, and he closes his eyes, relishing in the cool cage of his demon’s fingers over his cheeks. He feels the tingle of lips brushing each of his eyelids, and in spite of everything, he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Poet" is Dylan Thomas, one of Wales' greatest treasures (the Internet's Favourite Boyfriend Michael Sheen being another, of course). Thomas spent the balance of his later years in Laugharne, writing in a seaside shack and raising his family, before his tragic death at age 39. The poem is called Clown in the Moon. Isn't it stunningly sad?
> 
> This chapter was not originally meant to be an angst-fest. I honestly wanted to give them a little romantic break in the beautiful Welsh countryside. But there you have it: parental anxiety is real, I guess, particularly when your child is meant to save the human race. I don't know why I'm so determined for Crowley to be a tragic figure. I promise a happier chapter to come for these two... the melancholy abates once we're back to SoHo. 
> 
> Thanks, as ever, for reading!


	8. The Antichrist

“—and then mum said we couldn’t get a cat until I was in need of a _familiar_. Which she knows is unfair, because that won’t be for at least another three or four years, and after that I probably won’t even have time to look after a pet because I’ll be too busy with A levels— because you know we’ll take them early— and probably I’ll have a boyfriend and so I won’t _need_ a _cat_ to love.” Iphigenia pauses momentarily to nibble thoughtfully on a piece of red liquorice. “Anyway, the plan is to put a charm on one, to make it follow me home, and then just annoy mum into letting me keep it. If I can get dad attached, too, I think we’ll have a real shot of convincing her. D’you think?”

Lilith looks over at her best friend, lounging on her elbows on the sun-dappled blanket, not a care in the world except her haphazard plot to acquire a pet. “I think it needs a bit of work,” she says, trying her best not to snicker. Iphigenia rolls her eyes.

“Well of _course_ it does. Why d’you think I’m telling you? You’ve always got a better plan. And besides which, I’m not sure I could manage the charm without her.” Now Lilith does laugh out loud. The other girl is right; many a plan has evolved in exactly this manner.

“Hmm,” she says, slowly chewing her own liquorice rope. “I don’t think we actually _need_ a charm for it. Why not just find ourselves a kitten, and then tell her a very sad story about it being abandoned? You won’t need a charm to get it to stay, just start feeding it and it won’t leave you alone.” Lilith doesn’t have pets, but she knows how animals work, and this seems like a no-brainer.

Iphigenia drops fully onto her back, throwing her hands skyward. “You see? You always know a way that’s easier and better at the same time! It has to work! We could say something happened to its mother— she’ll hate that idea— and that the poor thing was absolutely terrified.”

While aware of how absolutely trivial this particular plot is in the broad scheme of things, Lilith finds herself being roped into her friend’s enthusiasm. “We should tell her I tried to get the kitten to come to me, but it went straight to you instead, and climbed up to hide inside your jumper, right over your heart.”

“Oh _stop_!” Iphigenia yells in delight. “You’re going to make me cry! It’s too touching.”

Lilith shrugs and flips over onto her stomach, head-to-head with her friend. “Papa says I have a gift for spinning a maudlin yarn.”

“Our little gifted one,” Iphigenia jokes, reaching over and pinching one of Lilith’s cheeks, good-naturedly. Lilith jostles her with her shoulder, in response, and they both laugh. Laying there on the blanket, a bag of candy between them, the afternoon sunshine warming them through the generous tree cover, Lilith thinks that this may be the closest thing to heaven that she’ll ever have a chance to know. And she’s heard it described, many times. These long, pointless summer days with her best friend are beyond equal in Lilith’s eyes.

She spends much of her time with Iphigenia, either studying during the week or lounging around on weekends, so they’re never short on quality time. But their summer breaks together are different. Nothing is expected of them, or required, aside from daily chores and regular kids’ stuff. Lilith loves the normalcy of life in Tadfield, with its golden sunlight and lush forests and fields. She loves Jasmine Cottage, with its traditional rooms and layout, its fences and gardens, so different from her London home. She loves her aunt and uncle, and of course her best friend. Phee has been a companion since before her memory began, a peer and a friend and a sister. Lilith knows her thoughts before she can even utter them. Back in London, Phee and Lilith both are more serious, more studious. There is work to be done, and they’ve been committed to the doing since well before their present day age of eleven years old. Here in Tadfield, there are significantly fewer requirements, and so it is possible to spend an entire afternoon laying on a blanket outside, eating candy and dreaming up average-kid schemes like convincing a parent to allow a pet into the house.

Lilith often feels a not-unkind sort of envy when she looks at Iphigenia. Phee’s life is simpler than hers, as they are both well aware. She’s not awaiting some unknown mission, which will one day be unceremoniously dropped into her lap without warning. As a result, she’s much more carefree and excitable than Lilith. Phee is very smart, but her mind whirs along at such a pace that sometimes it’s difficult to register her intelligence, with how frequently she changes topics and tunes. She has a sort of intuition for things that are about to happen, and Aunt Anathema has said more than once that it wouldn’t surprise her if she ended up just a bit clairvoyant. She’s very social, and quite pretty, with olive skin and coils of dark hair that Lilith covets endlessly.

But more than all of this, she is aware of the main difference between them: Phee hasn’t been tasked with saving the world. Perhaps she’s likely to be a part of it, but it’s not _Phee’s_ responsibility. That falls to Lilith herself, alone. Lilith knows that is the reason she’s here, although she’s naturally quite curious as to how and when. She feels a sense of _rightness_ when she considers it, although often it is accompanied by a creeping sense of dread. It is only on days like this, when she is free to lay outside in the perfect summer weather, that she can nearly forget it, even if it’s still on the periphery of her thoughts.

“ _Ugh_!” Phee’s sudden exclamation shakes Lilith out of her thoughtful silence, and they both sit bolt upright. The cause for her alarm is immediately clear: a small black and white dog has climbed onto her, and is busying about licking her all over her face, which is admittedly quite sticky with candy residue.

“That’s not exactly the pet we’d planned for,” Lilith says drily. “Hullo, Dog.” The canine immediately jumps over into her lap, repeating the process

“Dog!” A voice calls out from somewhere over their heads, “Gerroff, Dog!” A tall silhouette appears above them, backlit by the sun. As Dog runs toward it, Lilith shields her eyes and squints up.

“Hiya, Adam,” She says.

“ _HI_ ,” echos Phee at an incredible volume.

“Hi girls. Sorry about Dog, he’s fairly enthusiastic for an old bloke.” Adam Young sinks down onto his heels so he’s closer to their level. With a friendly grin, he pushes his sunglasses up into a mass of sandy curls. “Just taking in the sun, then?”

Phee gives an enthusiastic nod. “Mum didn’t say anything about you coming to visit,” she blurts out, all her characteristic guile and cheek seemingly having disappeared in the face of her good-looking neighbour. 

“Nah, it’s nothing formal. Just out for a stroll and figured we’d pop ‘round.”

“We’re having tacos for supper. You could stay!” Phee’s voice is a little higher than normal. Lilith would be confused at this odd behaviour, but she’s seen it before. Phee has a crush on pretty much every boy, age appropriate or not. Lilith has very little interest in crushes, herself— most boys she’s met are fairly silly, usually moderately dirty, and besides which she’s not allowed to tell anyone very much about her life, so it seems an awful waste of time.Phee’s always trying to convince her how swoon-worthy this boy or the other is, and she generally nods along in agreement, but if she’s honest, Lilith has better things to do. She’d rather spend time with Phee or her fathers any day— people who really know her, and can understand. She considers Adam for a moment. They know each other, vaguely, and he’s been around most of her life. But at a distance, not up close— she can’t recall them ever actually having had a proper conversation. She’s not exactly sure why, since he seems to have a fine relationship with her Aunt and Uncle and her fathers. Her connection to him is a bit removed— he’s sort of like a second-cousin might be, she supposes: someone you see on holidays or special occasions, but not exactly a friend or confidant. 

“I’ve got plans for later, I’m afraid, although the invite is appreciated.” He flashes Phee a smile; she simpers. There’s the sound of the back door opening, and then Aunt Anathema’s voice cuts through the languid air.

“Phee! Come here a moment, would you please?” Phee grimaces and straightens up.

“We’re visiting with Adam, Mum!” She calls back. Anathema’s head appears around the doorframe.

“Now, Iphigenia!” Phee shoots them a dour look. Lilith moves to get up as well, thinking maybe she should help with whatever it is, but stops when she hears, “Alone, please.” That doesn’t bode well for Phee, she thinks to herself, sympathetic yet secretly pleased that whatever trouble is in store is not coming her direction. She crosses her legs and settles back in, absently giving a pat to Dog, who’s sniffing at her knee.

“So,” Adam says, taking a proper seat across from her, “enjoying your visit?”

“Wish it didn’t have to end,” Lilith admits. “Although I’m looking forward to seeing my fathers, and I do miss London a little.”

“Me too,” Adam says conspiratorially. “Studying there, I rather got used to it. Tadfield is still my favourite place, but... well, it’s hard to pass up London. I’m not sure where I’ll end up next, honestly, but it’s good to be home for the moment.”

“They’re both my favourite,” Lilith says honestly. “I couldn’t pick.”

“Well said.” Adam pauses, his smooth brow furrowing slightly. “Your aunt asked me to come by,” he says in a bit of a lower voice. Lilith feels her eyebrows raise in surprise, and then a moment later, she’s got it.

“She told you,” She says, feeling her cheeks flush. “About what happened yesterday.”

“She did.”

“She shouldn’t have.”

“It’s _exactly_ what she should have done,” Adam says firmly, staring her right in the face. “I get it, all right? I’m not sure there’s anyone around who could get it better than I do.”

Lilith frowns. She knows some things about Adam’s history, from stories her fathers have told and what she’s gleaned over time, but they’ve never directly discussed it. “You were supposed to be the Antichrist, right?”

“I was,” Adam drawls, sounding a bit amused.

“But it didn’t exactly work out.”

“No, it did not.” He rolls his eyes. “What did they do, give you the Cliffs Notes version?”

“We don’t believe in Cliffs Notes,” She says earnestly. “My Da invented them, but we’re not supposed to talk about it. Papa says they had a three-year fight when he found out.” Adam guffaws.

“Perfect!” When he’s done chuckling, he leans in conspiratorially and says, “Would you like to hear the whole story?”

***

Adam talks for what feels like ages, with Lilith listening raptly the entire time. She’s never heard of anything like it— a boy so incredibly powerful, with so little discipline or oversight, running roughshod over all of civilization without even knowing it. It makes her own tiny mishaps seem utterly insignificant. But what strikes her most for all is how _good_ he wanted to be, through it all. His instinctive adoration of the world and its inhabitants, his passionate protection of them, all without any training or knowledge. A child with a destiny, who didn’t know it, stumbling haphazardly in the wrong direction from the one his makers had intended.

It’s thrilling and terrifying to think of, and she has never been more grateful for her family and her training. But a small voice in the back of her mind tells her she should be a bit outraged that she’s never been told all this before now. She wonders why her family has kept them apart for so long.

“Were you ever scared?” She asks him, when the story is done.

“Not really,” Adam says, sounding surprised at himself. “Irate. Worried, certainly. But not scared. It was like, once it all kicked into gear, I just knew what I was meant to be doing, and I did it. I only slipped a little, for a short time. I know I scared some other people. But I did my best to fix it, after.”

“I’m scared all the time,” she says, admitting it out loud for the first time. She looks over at Adam; he’s regarding her seriously.

“I can see why,” he says. “You’ve got the benefit and the burden of knowledge. On the one hand, you don’t have to stumble around in the dark, and you’re less likely to bungle something without even realizing. But on the other...” he sighs. “It must be tough, knowing ahead of time. I didn’t have the opportunity to worry about it. And you’ve got loads of opportunity.”

“I don’t even really know what it is I’m meant to do,” she says, picking absently at the blanket. “Or whether I’ll be able to, once I find out.”

“I wish I had an answer,” Adam says quietly. “But if it helps, I think your fathers will make sure you manage alright. They did, with me. A single minute out of time with them, and I knew what to do and how to do it. And things turned out all right. You’ve got millions of minutes behind you, and millions to come. They’ll help get you there.” It’s a very comforting thought. “And as for not knowing what you’re meant to do... I’m not sure that’s a problem that’s exclusive to Messiahs and Antichrists. I just graduated Uni, and I feel pretty much the same way. Maybe it’s a bit of a duller context, but the feeling’s probably the same.”

Lilith smiles at this. “Thanks,” she says. It’s actually helped, she feels a little better understood and less at sea than she has. “What do you think you might like to do, then?” She asks, genuinely wondering what sort of career could possibly seem interesting to a former Antichrist.

“Well, my degree was in environmental studies, with a minor in political science. But then in one of my classes, the Professor shared a quote with us, from this American environmental lawyer. He said, basically, that he’d thought the biggest environmental problems were biodiversity loss, ecosystem collapse and climate change, and that science could fix those things within thirty years. But then he realized that he was wrong, and that actually, the biggest problems are selfishness, greed and apathy. He said we needed a cultural and spiritual transformation, which is something scientists can’t take on, at least not alone. That made a lot of sense to me—maybe even moreso than your average college student, because of... well, you know. So I switched my major to my minor, and vice versa. I figured political science would give me better tools to get at the real issues.”

 _A cultural and spiritual transformation_. Lilith feels the words in her bones, and knows they’re true. This is it— this is the point of her. It’s obvious, from the way he says it, that Adam feels the same way. She nods. “It makes sense to me too,” she says. “Um, clearly.” He chuckles a bit, with an understanding few people in the world can possible share.

“Yes, well unfortunately nobody bothers to tell you, when you go into these things, that you basically need a law degree to get anywhere in politics these days.”

“That’s too bad,” Lilith commiserates. “I’d rather have an environmentalist for Prime Minister than a lawyer any day... I think.”

“Yes, well, more people out there like you, and I might have a fighting shot. Except they’d need to be voting age.”

Lilith considers this. “Well, that’s only seven years from now. And I bet plenty of kids feel like I do.”

“Are you saying that, if I was running for office in seven years, I’d have your vote?” Adam is smiling like it’s all very amusing. Lilith appreciates the lightheartedness of the conversation, but somewhere deep in the back of her mind, a great, unused gear has begun to turn.

“Absolutely,” she says firmly, the grating rumble of the gear accenting the single word with a bold underline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay! I hope this little Antichrist-Messiah chitchat makes up for it. 
> 
> The quote Adam paraphrases in this chapter is the following one, from American Environmental Lawyer James Gustav Speth: “I used to think the top environmental problems were biodiversity loss, ecosystem collapse and climate change. I thought that thirty years of good science could address these problems. I was wrong. The top environmental problems are selfishness, greed and apathy, and to deal with these we need a cultural and spiritual transformation. And we scientists don’t know how to do that.” Agreed, Mr. Speth. Very much agreed.
> 
> Thanks, as ever, for reading!


	9. Towards Tadfield, Forever

_If you want to imagine the future ... imagine a figure, half angel, half devil, all human, slouching hopefully towards Tadfield, forever._

- _Good Omens, Part 7, Chapter 2_

Phee wants to know every detail of Lilith’s conversation with Adam Young, once he’s left and she’s been let back outside. She’s realized, of course, that the chores she’d been summoned to do were a ruse, so Lilith doesn’t even bother telling her it was a setup.

“I think your mum thought it’d make me feel better, talking with him,” she tells her eager friend.

“I know I’D feel better,” Phee says, laughing a little. “He’s such a dream.” Lilith scrunches up her nose.

“He’s TWICE your age,” she says, feeling uncomfortable. The sudden kinship she feels with Adam is a bit beyond description, and the idea of him as the subject of a crush is mildly cringe-worthy.

“I know that. I’m in no hurry,” argues Phee. Lilith rolls her eyes.

“Anyway, it was a bit obvious. But I appreciated it anyway... it actually IS nice talking with someone who almost understands.”

Phee is thoughtfully silent for a moment before saying softly, “You _can_ talk to me, you know. I know I’m just a mortal, but I’d listen to you, Lil. I have before. And I _try_ to understand.”

Lilith’s heart drops into her stomach. “Oh no, Phee, I didn’t mean it like that,” she protests. “Of course I know I can talk to you.” She frowns a bit. “Also— I’m pretty sure I’m mortal too.”

“Well, let’s not find out!” They both laugh, at that, albeit a bit darkly.

“Did you know Adam wants to be a politician?” Phee screws up her face as if the idea is a bit repugnant. “Not the crooked kind, the kind who cares about stuff,” Lilith adds, trying to sound reassuring. “It made me think about what would happen if all the politicians were people like Adam. What if everyone in charge of running things actually cared about the environment and the places they live, and knew a little bit about... you know... the sorts of things we know a little bit about?”

“What, do you mean you want to _tell people_? Political-type people?” Phee shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “That sort of honesty is how witches got burned in the past, y’know.”

Lilith raises her eyebrow. “I’m not suggesting just popping up and telling random people, out of nowhere. But what if someone went into government already knowing?” She looks at her pointedly. “Don’t you think then something might get done properly for a change?”

“You mean Adam.” Phee looks sceptical and excited at the same time. “It _would_ be cool to know somebody in Parliament.”

“Don’t get too carried away,” Lilith says quickly. “He told me he’s only ever really wanted to be in charge of Tadfield, anyway. So maybe it’s a stupid idea. But... maybe not.”

“It’s too bad the Town Council are all lifers,” Phee intones, and it’s clearly a sentence she’s heard from her father because it practically comes out in Newt’s inflection.

“Maybe someone will retire,” Lilith muses. The gear creaks prophetically.

“Maybe. But If I don’t get a taco in my stomach in the next thirty seconds, I’ll never live to see it happen,” Phee says, suddenly bored with talk of politics. She springs to her feet. “C’mon, mum’s already going to be mad that I took so long to fetch you inside.”

***

Lilith wants to enjoy her last evening in Tadfield (for a while, at least), but she finds herself in a bit of a funk as she gets ready for bed. As she brushes her teeth, she stares at her own face in the mirror. She’s grown quite an impressive crop of freckles, playing outside in the sun, and her nose and cheeks are a bit pink. She doesn’t like the way it clashes with the yellow-red of her hair. Spitting out her toothpaste, she swipes a mass of unruly waves up onto the top of her head, scrunches up her nose, and squints at her reflection.

What she sees is a pale, scrawny eleven-year-old girl, with a burnt face and shoulders and messy hair, in her PJs. Sometimes, when she has a particularly inspiring day, Lilith tricks herself into imagining she’s something else— grown-up, powerful, in control of something greater than herself. But the mirror always brings her back around again. She sees her own reflection, and she wonders how she could have ever felt she is anything other than a powerless _kid_.

And yet she _knows_ she’s more. She has a responsibility, and a purpose, and when she’s face to face with the child in the mirror, that idea terrifies her. Because how is she, this small, stringy, insignificant thing, ever going to be able to carry that load?

Phee knows something’s wrong the second Lilith trudges into the bedroom. “What is it?” She says warily, as Lilith flops bonelessly onto her mattress.

“Nothing,” she mutters, knowing that of course Phee will press on. So she’s being a bit self-indulgent. Nobody ever said she wasn’t allowed (although she suspects she’s meant to be above it).

“Yeah, right.” Phee comes over and sits next to her, cross-legged on the bed. “C’mon... tell me.”

Lilith sighs, hard. “I think I’ve had a bit too much _thinking_ for one day,” she says with a grimace. Phee understands— she’s seen this mood before, many times.

“Too much big picture?” She asks. Lilith nods. “Focus in,” Phee says in her best impression of her mother’s voice. “Come on, small picture only.”

“I don’t think I can,” Lilith replies, trying her best to calm down. In spite of her efforts, it just feels worse. It’s like there’s a spiral winding downward inside her chest, sucking her into the terror of her uncertain future. Phee, who knows exactly what to do, grips her head tightly with both hands, pressing her fingers into her temples.

“Take a breath,” she says steadily. Lilith does as she’s told. “Another. Good. You’re right here, right now, and nothing is coming in the night to change that.“

“Yes... I know.” Lilith keeps breathing deeply, in the established rhythm, because it really does help her focus. “But... maybe I want things to change. Not want, exactly, but... maybe I need them to. You know?” She pauses, and sits up, facing Phee. “I feel this urge. I can’t explain it, but it’s sort of like when you’re in a really quiet room with other people and you think about what would happen if you just screamed, really loudly. And then, even though you know you can’t, it’s all you want to do, once you’ve had the thought.”

“I’d probably just scream, honestly,” Phee says, and Lilith laughs a little. She always knows what to say. “But really, Lil... if you feel like you need to do something, something more than just lessons and learning, you should say something. Talk to your parents, or to my mum. I’m sure they’ll understand. They might even be waiting for you to come to them.”

Lilith hadn’t considered that. “You’re right,” she admits. “I’m probably being silly. It just feels so strange, and so personal. I just don’t feel right. And it’s a bit scary.” She pauses. “When I start to think about actually getting out there, into the world, it freaks me out a bit. It always makes me think of... Him.”

Phee doesn’t have to ask who she’s talking about. There’s only one Him who she ever thinks of in her moments of terror. Lilith sees Him in her dreams, sometimes, on the worst of nights. Hears Him crying out for grace, and then mercy. Feels the blistering heat of the sun as if it were on her own skin, her mouth desert-dry with unimaginable thirst, her hands throbbing with invisible wounds. She wakes up choking and sobbing, feeling as if her heart has stopped.

She can’t tell her fathers— they’d probably never let her sleep again. But Phee knows.

“You are NOT Him,” Phee says firmly. “He didn’t have even half of the help that you do. What did She give Him for help? A human mother only a couple years older than us, a few visits from absentee angels and a bunch of bandwagon-jumpers who just didn’t _get it_ until well after the fact?” Phee clicks her tongue. “That’s just unfair. He never had a chance. But you? You’ve got an Angel and a Demon for parents, a witch for an aunt, and most importantly, ME.” She grins widely. “I think I’m worth at least a dozen Apostles. Maybe a baker’s dozen, even.”

Lilith feels herself tearing up. “Two dozen, minimum,” she says, finally cracking a smile. Phee leans forward and grabs her in a bear hug, and Lilith returns the embrace. She must be exceptionally lucky, she thinks, to have a friend like Iphigenia on her side. Or maybe she’s blessed.

“Besides,” Phee says, as she gets up and trundles over to her own bed, “If our earlier planning works out, you’ll have the future Prime Minister on your side. So you’ll have yourself friends in all sorts of high places.”

“He was only joking, Phee,” Lilith says laughingly, thinking that poor Adam is probably in for some hounding in the future.

“A lot of good ideas begin that way,” Phee says knowingly, as she clicks off her bedside lamp.

Lilith’s still thinking of it later, as she tries to settle down to sleep, listening to the steady hum of Phee’s breathing. In spite of her insistence that it’s just a joke, Lilith can’t shake the feeling that she’s onto something. Adam might not think he has the necessary tools and qualifications, but Lilith knows that he’d be good enough to make a change in a place like Tadfield, at least. Maybe there IS something she can do to help him toward that. And if she can do that for Tadfield, maybe there’s something to be done about the rest of the world, too. The idea excites her, and the sense of purpose that she feels at the thought of doing something for the better is scintillating. She’s just not sure how in the world to accomplish it.

She wants the best for everyone, truly she does. Lilith doesn’t want any of the local politicians to lose the jobs they love and have done for so long. But maybe there’s one of them, among the bunch, who’s just not cut out for it, or who’s grown tired of government. Maybe that person has another dream, one they’d love to live out, and they’re staying in Tadfield out of duty, or habit. Maybe, if this is the case, _everyone_ would be better served if this person followed that dream. And then Adam, whose dream really IS to take care of things in Tadfield, can have a chance.

She’ll have to think about it tomorrow, sneakily talk to her Aunt and Uncle and try to figure out which of the town council members fit that plot, and the best way to help them along the way. Satisfied at last to have an almost-plan, Lilith turns onto her side, snuggles into the soft blankets, closes her eyes, and smiles.

***

The next morning, across town, Tadfield town councilman Geoffrey Tiggs awakes at the usual hour of half-five, stretches his legs over the edge of his bed and then places his feet into his waiting slippers. From there, he pads downstairs to the kitchen, flicks on the element beneath the pre-filled kettle and spoons some coffee from a tin jar into the press beside the mugs he’d set out the evening prior. 

He’s just awoken from the most astonishing dream. He’s never had one quite like it, so vivid that he almost doubts his own mind could have created it. It’s as though it was placed in his head, a beautiful gift from some unknown benefactor, for him to unwrap in his sleep. Mr. Tiggs rarely has such poetic notions, but... it was that sort of dream. In it, he’d found himself in a small flat overlooking a bustling town square in the heart of Napoli, with stone walls and creaking floors and a Juliet balcony across the open doors in the kitchen. His Eileen was stringing bedsheets onto a clothesline, and he was tossing shallots and pancetta in a pan with butter while a pot of water rolled to a boil, ready for the fresh pasta he’d made that morning. The salt air blowing in through the window stirred something in his heart, a memory of a youthful dream long forgotten to paperwork and civic duty. When he woke to the familiar chiming of his alarm clock, there were tears in his eyes.

At eighty-one years old, Mr. Tiggs is the oldest and longest-serving member of the Tadfield Town Council, although not by much. He and his colleagues have served the town and served it well for many decades. It is a job Mr. Tiggs has taken quite seriously, and has performed dutifully and with commitment since his election. Although he admits (to himself and himself alone) that, in recent years, he has never quite understood some of the matters up for consideration— too many modern ideas, unsuited for the lives of the good folk who live and work in Tadfield— he feels he is an honest and decent politician, and has done his job with the utmost pride.

And yet.

Geoffrey Tiggs is an old man, and not getting any younger. The past few winters in the English countryside have seemed colder and less forgiving than those before, the summers hotter, and there is so much _rain_ in the spring that it is nearly unbearable. And every year seems to bring more and more children to the town. Not that he has any problem with children, he just doesn’t want any sort of civic responsibility for them. Not to mention their parents. The grandparents are fine, he supposes, but when it comes down to it, most constituents come with a level of responsibility and neediness that Mr. Tiggs simply finds he lacks the energy to entertain without aggravation.

His own children, long since grown and moved away, have been imploring him to retire now for at least fifteen years. And Eileen has sciatica. The winters aren’t easy on him, either, no matter how limber he keeps himself. And then there is that dream...

The kettle begins to whistle; he hears Eileen begin to stir upstairs. Geoffrey Tiggs wraps a dishtowel around his hand, picks up the kettle by its burning hot handle and fills the press with boiling water. He sets the timer for five minutes. Then he turns to the east-facing window and, to the timer’s relentless percussive beat, watches the sun rise on the first day of the rest of his life.

And so it is that a seat on the Town Council becomes available for Adam Young to fill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double-update week, since I went two weeks before posting the previous chapter! I thought it was only fair to double up, since this one’s so short and sweet, more of an interlude, really. 
> 
> Sometimes I think I won’t ever suffer as much as I did while experiencing the angst of pre-teenaged girlhood. All of that misery and doubt, and I wasn’t even tasked with saving the world. Poor Lilith.
> 
> Next chapter, the Ineffable Family reunites!


	10. Beginning Chapter One of the Great Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the break— September was a battlefield.
> 
> This chapter contains SPOILERS for the final book in the Chronicles of Narnia series, “The Last Battle”. I’m not certain whether etiquette requires me to provide a spoiler warning for a 63-year-old book, but there it is— if you don’t wish to learn how the Chronicles of Narnia end, you may want to skip the final third of this chapter. If you comment or message me, I’ll send you a summary :)
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with the story through to the halfway point. You’re marvellous!

Aziraphale knows that Lilith has always been able to sense when he and Crowley are nearby, so it’s no surprise to him that, by the time the Bentley comes roaring down the laneway toward Jasmine Cottage, she is standing anxiously at the front gate, bouncing on the balls of her feet in an attempt to see them through the windows of the speeding car. As they skid to a stop, she flies to the passenger side and topples onto him the moment he opens the door. With an amused _oof_ , Aziraphale embraces his daughter.

“I missed you!” She says into his collar, and then he feels her lift her head. “Hi Da,” she says fondly, addressing Crowley. Aziraphale’s heart clenches painfully as he wonders how long they have left of greetings like this. Soon he imagines Lilith will be too old to throw herself at them after a week’s absence. She’ll be fine, when that happens, but Aziraphale isn’t sure he’ll survive it quite so well. He gives her a pat on the back as she unwinds herself from him and they both get out of the car. Crowley’s beat them to it, and their daughter now tucks herself neatly under the demon’s arm, looking up at him with a grin. “How was Wales?”

“Long and unpronounceable, mostly,” Crowley intones, mouth twisting up at the corners.

“Sounds right,” Lilith agrees, laughter bubbling through her words. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“You know perfectly well that there isn’t a language in existence that your Father can’t speak flawlessly,” he admonishes. It’s one of the perks of demonhood, speaking in tongues. Crowley’s not just multi-lingual; he’s omnilingual. The demon has absolutely no trouble whatsoever in pronouncing the longest and most absurd Welsh words and phrases. He also knows that it’s one of the few languages Aziraphale’s angelic tongue hasn’t been able to properly master, and takes every possible opportunity to poke fun at him for it.

“No,” Crowley replies, “But the Welsh have made a valiant effort.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the both of them. “Teaming up already, I see,” he says, and Lilith sticks her tongue out at him. “Oh, very nice.” He sweeps past them loftily, into the house to pay his respects to Newt and Anathema.

After a lovely tea (complete with delicious flatbreads, compliments of Newt, who may be rubbish with technology but is a wizard with starch and a wood stove) and a touching goodbye between Lilith and Iphigenia, they pile into the Bentley and head back toward London, and home. Lilith rides up front with Crowley, while Aziraphale sits primly in the back seat, quite content to watch the backs of their heads and listen in as they prattle on in their own proprietary patter. The rhythm of conversation between Crowley and Lilith has always fascinated him: incomplete sentences, ejected enthusiastically from the sharpest of tongues, words either clipped and short or absurdly drawn-out and melodious. Sometimes it’s as if they share a brain. They don’t finish each others’ sentences, exactly— they’ve no need to finish them, as each apparently understands what the other is saying before it’s even been fully said. Aziraphale doesn’t even try to interpret anymore, he just sits and lets the music of their voices wash over him, water for the thirsty garden in his chest.

They pull up to the bookshop a mere hour later. Crowley always manages to make the trip half as long as any other motorist might. Lilith tears inside as quickly as she can snap her fingers (the one instance where she’s permitted to use her abilities without prior discussion and as often as she likes), and greets the shop like it’s an old friend. Then she rushes back through the door to their private quarters and darts up the spiral staircase to her room.

It had taken several years for Crowley to come to terms with the fact that they were never going to relocate to his Mayfair flat. After an extended period of mourning for his extravagant bachelor pad, he’d sold the place for a mountainous sum, and then put a portion of those funds towards renovating the flat above the shop. The flat is tiny, just a studio occupying only half the space above the private quarters below, as most of the shop’s ceilings soar the full two stories up. It’s just enough space for a large-ish bedroom and ensuite. When Lilith outgrew her tiny nursery, they miracled a hole through the ceiling and installed the staircase, and she now occupies the upstairs quarters. In addition, they’ve glassed in the small outdoor second-floor terrace to create a greenhouse for Crowley’s plants (which have grown even more prolifically since Lilith began sleeping in the room next to them).

Aziraphale watches her heels disappear up the last few steps. She’s taller, he thinks. And in spite of her earlier enthusiasm, more serious. Something has shifted in her. Crowley was right. It is time.

“Love,” he says without looking behind him. “We have to talk to her.” Crowley’s hand drops onto his shoulder.

“Yeah,” comes the reply. “I know.”

“It has to be soon.” He turns to face Crowley; cool arms coil around his waist as he moves. He’s aware that he’s pouting a bit, but Crowley tips one eyebrow skyward and shakes his head.

“Look at your face,” he says, sounding like he’s fighting back a laugh, but also a little like his heart is breaking. “You’d think it was the end of the world.”

“Well it very well could be!” Aziraphale is careful to keep his voice low. Crowley shakes his head dismissively, planting a quick kiss on his forehead.

“No. It isn’t going to happen. This is the start of the very thing that will make sure of it.” His hands move to Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he holds them reassuringly. “I believe in her, Aziraphale. But she can’t do what she was put here to do if we cut her off at the knees. It’s time she had a say in what goes on.”

“I know,” Aziraphale whispers miserably. “I just wish she could stay a child for a little while longer. Not forever... just for now.”

“She was always going to change faster than either of us could fathom. Human lives are just so... quick.” Now Crowley looks a bit crestfallen as well. “So... we sit her down, we have _the talk_ , and we move on.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale. “But... maybe tomorrow?”

“Angel, procrastination is a sin.”

“It’s not, and you know it. It’s just not particularly productive. But it couldn’t hurt to have just one more night. Just one normal, quiet night.” He stares into Crowley’s eyes in what he hopes is an appealingly imploring manner. “Couldn’t we have just one more night?”

He can practically hear Crowley’s eyes rolling behind his sunglasses. “All right,” the demon says, withdrawing his hands with a comforting pat. “Temptation accomplished.”

“ _Crowley_.” The smirk on the demon’s face as he turns on his heel and saunters toward the door should enrage Aziraphale. It does not.

“You wanna keep an eye on that, Angel. You’re becoming mighty effective at it.”

“Yes. Well. Thank you for your concern.” Aziraphale trudges moodily after him, the clock to tomorrow ticking down ominously in his head.

***

It is Crowley who suggests they take a nice evening out on the town, with supper at one of their favourite restaurants. Lilith, who is very much like her Papa in that she loves any occasion to turn out and enjoy some fine dining, emerges from her loft in one of her smartest outfits, a gauzy light-coloured shift dress with a pastel cardigan thrown over top, hair tossed over her shoulder in a long plait. Aziraphale’s heart twists when he sees her, all put-together and so awfully grown-up, and dressed exactly as he would be, were he an eleven-year-old girl (which he is not, although he tangentially appreciates the clothing). This often happens when one or the other of her parents is having a tough day— Lilith will unconsciously align with them, sort of mimicking their tastes and interests. At least Aziraphale _thinks_ it isn’t consciously done. It never fails to cheer him up, seeing this tiny, human version of himself floating around the bookshop, all tidy and prim. It’s even more entertaining on days when she takes after Crowley, clad in dark clothes and combat boots, tearing around with red curls streaming messily behind her. He can’t decide which version he appreciates more— neither, he supposes. Or both.

Dinner is delectable, as always, although Lilith absolutely refuses to allow him to order the swordfish because, she says, it’s almost certainly not sustainably fished ( _why did they ever have to teach her these things_ , he wonders as he munches half-heartedly on a replacement meal that’s not half as good as he’s sure the fish would’ve been). Crowley orders perhaps one bottle of wine too many for a family dinner, but it is delicious, and they maintain their composure and walk it off in the park, grabbing ice cream from a cart. Lilith is used to a certain degree of “merriness” from her parents during these sorts of outings, so she pays it little mind. They are always careful not to be drunk around her, but neither do they see the harm in letting her see them enjoy themselves, as adults are welcome to do. They’re certainly old enough.

Back at the bookshop, Crowley and Lilith play a spirited game of chess (which she almost wins), while Aziraphale goes about the motions of reading in his favourite chair. He finds the words swim on the page before him, and he doesn’t retain much, but he doesn’t really mind. Afterward, Lilith embraces them both and heads up the spiral staircase to prepare for bed.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighs to Crowley, when they’re alone. “I suppose that is that.” Crowley, rising, gives him a half-hearted grin and comes to perch on the arm of his chair.

“Don’t be morose, Angel.” A cool hand rakes the back of his head, pulling his hair gently and incidentally turning his face upward toward Crowley’s. “‘s not allowed.”

Aziraphale smiles involuntarily. Something about the sinuous way Crowley has folded himself onto the arm of the chair, and the thin fingers at the nape of his neck, makes him lose all focus for a moment. “You are _so_ good to me,” he whispers gently. “You always know exactly what I need. How is that, I wonder?”

“I know a lot of things,” Crowley says, fingers working at his tendons, slipping below his collar.

“Very true.” Their faces have grown closer and closer together, and Crowley closes the distance, their lips brushing together.

“Papa?” From above them, a distant voice calls out, and both of them wince.

“Eleven. Years.” Crowley hisses through clenched teeth. “It never fails.”

Aziraphale shakes his head ruefully as he gets to his feet. “Be right there, darling,” he calls up the staircase, and then to Crowley, at a lower volume, “Just... hold that thought a moment.”

“Satan forbid I should ever get to hold anything else,” is the muttered reply. Aziraphale rolls his eyes as he heads for the stairs.

“We JUST got back from a week away together. As I recall, you had plenty of opportunities to hold all sorts of things.” Crowley shushes him elaborately, smiling wickedly as he employs an elaborate saunter out of the room. Aziraphale just shakes his head and starts up the staircase.

“What is it, my dearest?” He says as he reaches her doorway. Lilith, he can see, is already in bed, blankets pulled up to her armpits and a thick tome clutched in her hands. She smiles at him, and Aziraphale detects a hint of embarrassment.

“It’s just, well...” She looks down at the book, and then back up at him. “I almost finished it, while I was away, but I wondered if we might, um...” looking down awkwardly, she flips the book open to almost the very end and then extends it towards him. “I saved the last chapter,” she says lamely. “For you. I know I’m too old for reading aloud, but we started it together. And I didn’t want to finish it without you.”

Aziraphale’s breath escapes him a moment, metaphorically. He takes the book and looks at it— it’s the complete Chronicles of Narnia, open to the final chapter of _The Last Battle_. He sits down on the bed, beside her, and puts the book between them. “Thank you for waiting for me,” he says, determined not to dissolve into tears at the touching gesture. “Would you like to read, or shall I?”

“You,” Lilith says, snuggling down into his side.

“All right,” Aziraphale says, and begins. “ _If one could run without getting tired, I don’t think one would often want to do anything else..._ ”

As he reads the final pages of the epic, Aziraphale hears Lilith’s breath quicken and settle along with the events of the story. He can feel her heart beat in time, pressed as she is into his side. He aches with the knowledge that his child is so affected by stories, knowing very well that she’ll have her own to deal with soon enough, just as epic as this but a thousand times more real.

“ _And as He spoke, He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. and for us this is the end of all stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before._ ” Aziraphale pauses, and then closes the book slowly. Beside him, Lilith shifts, sitting up a bit.

“Hm.” She says. Not exactly an enthusiastic response to the end of a series she’s been working on for some time. Aziraphale regards her curiously.

“Is that all?” He asks, prodding. Lilith screws up her mouth as if something tastes sour.

“So, that’s it? They’re all dead, and so they just... let Narnia be destroyed and go off to live in the newer, better Narnia?”

“Um. Essentially.”

Lilith throws her hands up suddenly. “Unbelievable! And Aslan just helps it along, ordering Father Time to destroy the sun, and then they all just close the door and turn their backs on the frozen world, to go live in a better place?” She sounds utterly outraged. “I don’t believe it!”

Aziraphale had honestly forgotten the end of the story, and now he wishes he’d kept it clearer in his mind. “Unfortunately, that is how it was written,” he admits. “But darling it’s just a story.”

“It’s _not_ just a story!” She cries, beside herself. “I’ve been reading it for years, I’m _invested_ in it.” He would laugh at her incredibly perfect use of a word not typically in an eleven year old’s vocabulary, if it wasn’t so heartbreakingly sad. “Stories are real, you know that. They live through the reader. You told me. And besides, I know what this one’s really about.”

Oh. Aziraphale swallows nervously, as Lilith continues.

“I know Aslan is supposed to be _Jesus_.” She stumbles a little on the name, as if she’s afraid she might invoke something by saying it. “And I understand that they’re all meant to have gone to Heaven at the end, to have eternal life there. And that’s lovely for them. But I can’t believe they just let Narnia be destroyed.” Aziraphale realizes with utter dismay that she is crying, hot, angry tears streaking her red cheeks. “I love Narnia! And I don’t care if Heaven is a better place— they didn’t have to destroy Narnia like that. They could have saved it. It wasn’t past help.”

At this point, Aziraphale is wondering what on earth he was ever thinking, giving this book to this child. It had all seemed so simple when it was just _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ , he thinks mournfully. _Foolish Angel_. It is too late now, he thinks. In for a penny, in for a pound. He regards Lilith steadily, and says, “I don’t disagree, my dearest. It doesn’t seem like the fairest solution. Perhaps we can think up a different ending?” Lilith sniffs a little, and then nods. “Good. What do you think they should have done differently?”

“Well... I think, if the Narnians were so far off the path, Aslan should have gotten more involved. He could have said something, or done something, to help, instead of just waiting around and watching over, showing up at the end of everything all the time. If he really loved Narnia, and wanted to save it, he would have done something about it. That’s what I would do. I’d do my best, and I wouldn’t stop until I’d done everything I could to save Narnia, and all the people and creatures there. Even if there was a better version waiting— they’d get there eventually anyway, if they lived right. There’s no reason Narnia had to end for that to happen. I know there was a lot wrong with it, but you have to at least _try_.” She looks at him a bit questioningly, as if seeking his approval, even though her voice is firm and her words are unequivocal. Aziraphale smiles at her, proudly.

“It sounds like you’ve got it all sorted out for yourself,” he says, wiping a few stray tears off her cheeks. She’s stopped crying, now simply impassioned and logical. “That’s good. That point of view will be important one day. Particularly for you.”

“I know.” Lilith looks down, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Papa?”

“Yes, my dearest?”

“I’m not anything like Aslan,” she says quietly. “I’m not big or noble or awe-inspiring. I’m just a kid. How am I going to save the world, without those things?”

Aziraphale wants to cry out to Crowley, not entirely certain he’s equipped to handle this answer on his own. But she’s asking _him_. She’s so uncertain, and the last thing she needs it to think he’s not certain, either. He takes a steadying breath, to stall, and then gives his best attempt. “I don’t think you have to be big or noble to change things for the better,” he says slowly. “I think you have to be smart, and prepared, and that you have to care an awful lot— more than should even be possible. I think you need to keep your friends close, because they love you and believe it you, and love and faith are your strongest assets in what’s to come. Not just faith in the Almighty, but faith in yourself, and in your loved ones, and in the world.” He squeezes her gently into his side. “And as for awe-inspiring: if you can manage to be everything I’ve just said— and you already are—you’ll inspire awe in everyone you meet. Maybe in a quiet way, compared to a giant talking lion. But I promise, you will.”

Lilith sighs heavily. “I think you believe in me more than I do,” she admits. Aziraphale smiles back at her.

“That is unsurprising... I believe in you more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“You really think I can do it?”

“I do. One day. It doesn’t have to happen right away.”

“It scares me, Papa,” she whispers.

“Me too. But I promise, we will find a way, together. All of us. You will never be on your own in this, as long as your Da and I exist. And we’re not going anywhere.” She snuggles back down into his side.

“Will you stay a bit?” She says softly.

“I will.” Aziraphale fluffs the pillow behind her a bit and presses his hand to her cheek. Lilith smiles. With his other hand, he waves at the ceiling; a dozen orbs of soft light appear, hanging above them, illuminating the loft in an other-worldly glow as he snaps the lamp out. With a deep breath, Lilith closes her eyes.

Over time, her breathing grows heavy and even, and Aziraphale knows she has fallen into a peaceful sleep. He sends her a quick blessing for a pleasant dream of her own making, and gingerly extracts himself from the bed, moving at his most silent down the stairs and back towards his and Crowley’s own sleeping quarters.

“Well,” says Crowley, from the spot where he’s reclining on the bed. “That was some conversation.”

“You heard everything, then?” He knows the answer, obviously-- as with most occult beings, Crowley's hearing is preternaturally excellent, although he certainly chooses when to employ it, sometimes to Aziraphale's consternation.

"Of course."

"Well, thank you for coming to my rescue," Aziraphale intones sarcastically. Crowley shrugs.

"Seemed to me like you had it locked down." He pats the mattress beside him; Aziraphale sits down thoughtfully.

"It wasn't as horrible as I'd imagined," he admits. "There's still much to discuss, of course, which we can begin to do tomorrow as planned. But she's obviously come to some conclusions of her own, without our help."

"I wouldn't say that, exactly," Crowley says. "I think she's had plenty of inspiration." He places a comforting hand on Aziraphale's knee. "I like to think we've both had a little something to do with that." Aziraphale smiles.

"You're quite right, of course." He covers Crowley's hand with his own. "So. Do you think we're quite ready for what's to come?"

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. "There's a new chapter beginning tomorrow,' he says. "Aren't you excited to read it?"

"Well, quite frankly, at the moment I can think of material I'd rather peruse..." Aziraphale scoots over so they're closer, thighs pressed together and shoulders touching. The Demon's eyebrows meet his hairline.

"I wasn't sure you would still be interested in... that particular text, at the moment" he says with equal parts trepidation and excitement. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

"I seldom tire of it. As you are well aware." As Crowley's hand moves to his waist, he breaths, "It's my very favourite story."

"Enough metaphor," Crowley growls, pouncing, and Aziraphale flops bonelessly to the mattress as he's bowled over beneath him. "Less talk. More do."

"That's- not even - grammatically- sound," Aziraphale's attempted protest is punctuated by hungry kisses. Crowley simply will not allow him to continue speaking. _Oh, for Heaven's sake..._ "Sod it," he mutters finally, and these are the last words he'll speak for some time.

Later, in the dim glow of their bedroom, an angel and a demon will lay entwined, tracing tingling pathways along each others' arms, and it will be unclear where one starts and the other ends. Light and dark, tangled together in the ultimate peace and understanding, casting a cool, comforting grey in all directions around them, into the air of a brand new morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III - “Play the Game” is coming soon (I promise).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
